


Child of the Stone

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-11-07 16:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 36
Words: 36,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: “I can think of plenty of worse fates than being captured by a beautiful Grey Warden.”She looked to where Alistair was bending to collect kindling. “He is very pretty, isn’t he?”Zevran laughed. “My dear lady...I am not blind to your friend’s finer qualities, believe me. But when I speak of a beautiful Warden, I refer to you.”





	1. The road to Ostagar

The night air of the Frostbacks was icy - the simple act of breathing made her nostrils burn, the wind was a thousand tiny bites on her skin. It smelled...fresh. Open. That was the first thing she noticed.

The second, a vast darkness covered in pinpricks of white. Varying in brightness, here a scattering of tiny lights, there a swirl like ashes on dark stone, but sparkling, brighter than gemstones, sharper than fire. It was so vast, vast enough to swallow her up, but she felt less afraid than in a long time. Perhaps ever.

“It's so...pretty.”

 _Sky._ It was called sky.

The man at her side looked down at her, amusement in his gentle eyes.

“Come. We have far to travel.”

 

He matched his pace to hers. It couldn't have been easy; his longer legs demanded a longer stride, and over time the unnatural gait would put pressure on his joints and make his muscles move in unwelcome ways. He didn't complain.

 _Duncan_. She'd never seen a human before him, had gawked at his elongated limbs and his unnatural height before she'd been taken aback by his strange manner. Speaking to her, a brand, as if she belonged there in the Commons among the proper dwarves! More, as if she were a child of the stone, beloved of the ancestors. The thought made her laugh.

Now he was patient with her unending questions, if somewhat evasive. She didn't mind evasive - growing up, an unwelcome question would get her a cuff around the head or worse. She was delighted when it began to change colour, the _sky_ , and he seemed amused at her childlike wonder when the first fingers of pink dawn crept across the grey.

“Where did the lights go?” And she learned a new word, _stars._

 

_What kind of a name is River?_

_What kind of name is Leske?_

_It's a proper duster name. Same as my dad, and my dad's dad._

_Well I don't have a dad, and my sister named me. Something she heard about in a tale._

_You brats get out of here, I got business._ Back when mother still got business. _Go on, out, I said._ And out they went into the streets of Dust Town to beg what coin they could, steal what coin they couldn't beg, even then returning a cut to Beraht.

_We'll get out of here one day._

_Oh yeah? To where?_

_I don't know. The surface._

_So we can fall into the sky and disappear? No thanks._

_I'd rather disappear than stay here._

 

“That's a river?”

The waters of the River Dane ran grey and silver over the rocks here, crashing down towards the Waking Sea from Lake Calenhad. Standing in those waters the rebel army of Ferelden had stood strong against the Chevaliers of Orlais, striking a pivotal blow in the fight for independence. Amongst the rocks in the shallows to the north, the river had run red with blood.

She looked down in awe, this girl named for water who had never seen more water in one place than could be held in a pot, who had squealed at her first experience of rain. Her eyes shone.

Duncan looked out over the rushing waters. “That is a river.”

“It's so…” she cast about for the right word, finally settling on “...fast.”

“Come, River.” He gestured to road winding south. “It's still a long way to Ostagar.”

 

_What's a surfacer, Rica?_

_It's someone whose soul will never return to the stone._

_And that's bad?_

_Yes, River, it's bad._

_Worse than casteless?_

_Yes, much worse._

_That must be really bad._

 

“What are those?”

“Trees.”

“Argh! What's that?”

“Snow.”

“What's that noise?”

“Wolves.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means keep your daggers close at hand.”

“Duncan?”

“Yes, River?”

“Is it far, still, to Ostagar?”

“Yes, quite far.”

“And there are more Grey Wardens there?”

“All the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.”

“Are there many dwarves?”

“Not many, no.”

“Oh! What's that?”

“A horse.”

“Will it kill me?”

“Not if you keep your distance.”

 

_Rica, if you named me, then who named you?_

_Mother did._

_Then why didn't she name me?_

_I don't know, River. I think she was tired by then._

_Oh. Well thank you, for my name._

 

“What's that?” River asked for the hundredth time that day.

Duncan looked down at the ruined city, arches of grey stone washed gold in the morning sun.

“That,” he said, “is Ostagar.”


	2. Alistair

It was her eyes that caught Alistair’s attention first, dark and bright, curious. She looked around her like everything was new and strange, like she was on an adventure.  

And a dwarf! Not too many dwarves about, here in the King’s camp. She might be the first female dwarf he'd seen in Ostagar. Very female. Pleasingly round and curvy, rosy-cheeked with hair hanging in two fat black braids over her shoulders. And when he poked fun at the mage (showing off a bit, if he was honest) she smothered a giggle with her hand.

She hovered after the mage stalked off, regarding him with those bright eyes.

He smiled down at her. “One good thing about a blight is how it brings people together.”

“You're funny.” Most of one cheek was covered by an S-shaped tattoo, a bold black mark marring her pale skin.

“It's always nice when someone notices.” Close up she seemed even shorter - the top of her head didn't quite reach as high as his shoulder. “Wait - you're not a mage, are you?”

A tiny frown creased her brow. “I don't think so. Would I know?”

“Oh yes, I'm sure you'd notice. Silly question in fact, dwarves can't be mages.”

“Why not?” She looked up at him with her hands linked behind her back, genuine curiosity in her expectant gaze.

“Um...because dwarves are cut off from the Fade, I suppose.”

“Someone else talked about the Fade. What is it, exactly?”

“It's…” Maker's breath. He almost wished for the mage back. “Oh wait, you're Duncan’s new recruit, aren't you?” What was the name...something odd, Rain or Leaf or some other not-very-dwarfy thing. “I should have recognised you.”

“How would you recognise me? You've never seen me.”

Fair point. “Duncan wrote to say you were coming. He spoke very highly of you.”

At this the dwarf beamed with pride. “You must be Alistair.”

“At your service.” Her smile was contagious.

“I'm River. Pleased to meet you.” The frown returned and she bit her lip. “That is what you say up here, isn't it?”

“River, that was the name! And yes, that will do nicely.”

“What were you arguing with that man about?” She listened with rapt attention, firing a barrage of questions at him about Templars, mages, the other Warden recruits, the coming battle until he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Come, we should find Duncan. I'll follow you.” 

Which he did, trying not to notice the gap between her boots and tunic where her plump thighs showed, or the enticing curve of her bottom.  _ Think of darkspawn. No, think of the Revered Mother.  _ Luckily she didn't lead for long, dropping back to his side and pointing out a thousand things in the camp with a steady stream of chatter.

“That man's a tranquil, which sounds a bit like what you said a dwarf was except he's taller than any dwarf I've seen and he talks funny. Those are mages from the Circle - why do they call it a circle? Is it round? Up there's the infirmary and some people chanting...wait, is that why they call it the Chantry? And there's a man who says we're all going to die, and a deserter locked up in a cage, he's been there ages and they hadn't fed him so I had to steal some food off the guard.”

He halted. “You did what?”

“He was hungry. Have you ever been hungry, like days without food hungry? I have.” Spoken matter-of-factly like she was talking about the weather, although he supposed dwarves in Orzammar didn't talk about the weather.

“So you  _ stole  _ it from the guard?”

She shrugged. “If he'd really wanted it he'd have eaten it already. There are so many things just lying around here.”

Wait, that didn't sound good. “Um...like what?”

“Well…” she fished about her person for a moment, producing various odds and ends. “Some coin, and this ring - I think it's silver - and a pair of gloves, some potions, these daggers…”

“That's a lot of daggers.” And she was already equipped with two. “How many do you need?”

“You can't have too many daggers.” She tucked them away again, in her boots and beneath her belt and - he averted his eyes - down the front of her tunic. “And what you don't need, you can sell.”

She and Daveth would find a lot to talk about. “Perhaps don't go around telling people about all the things you've stolen.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said brightly. “But it's alright to tell you. We're on the same side.” Once again he found himself returning her warm smile.

“The King’s tent is over there - I met him, he seems nice. Did you know he's been fighting with the Teyrn about his wife? The King's wife, not the Teyrn’s. It would have been easier just to say the Queen, wouldn't it? The dogs are over there. I'd never seen a dog a few weeks ago. They're not the same as dogs in the villages though - are they definitely the same animal, or are there two different things you call dogs?”

“No, definitely all dogs.”

She dodged a harried-looking elf. “Are all the elves servants?”

“No. Some are…” What? Beggars? Camp followers? “Dalish,” he said lamely.

“What's a Dalish?”

“I'll tell you later.” She'd probably hold him to that. “Look, there's Duncan.” Thank the Maker.


	3. The Joining

Daveth. She liked him. He had blue eyes that were clever and shifty, and he was light-fingered like her. Jory not so much, there was something soft and fidgety about him. She wondered what the rest of them were like. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, this Grey Wardening, even if everyone up here insisted on being so sodding tall all the time. Alistair was nice enough, funny even if he’d gotten a bit serious since they entered the Wilds.

“Everything’s very green here, isn’t it?” Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her. “I mean, all one colour. Green green green. A bit like home, except there everything’s more kind of...dust coloured.” River had to move a little faster to keep up with the longer stride of the men. “I’m supposed to look for a flower. For the kennel master. Well, more for the dog. What’s a flower?”

“What’s a…” He scratched his neck. “It’s a plant.”

“Oh.” She considered this. “What’s a plant?”

“Maker,” he muttered. “See all that green? That’s plants.”

“But not flowers.”

“Nope, no flowers.”

“Then what makes a flower?”

“It has other colours.”

“Oh! He said it would be white. The kennel master, not the dog.”

He smiled. “The dog didn’t talk, then?”

“No. They talk?” Before he could answer she spied a cluster of white in the green. “That! Is that a flower?”

“It has flowers, but it’s deathroot. Not good for dogs.”

“No. It doesn’t sound good for anyone, really.”

“River,” he said. “We should really be more quiet. On the lookout for darkspawn, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. You said you’d sense them when they were close.”

“That’s right.”

“But I saw those last ones before you did.”

“Well...I suppose that’s true.” He looked down at her. “You were too quick for me. It was impressive, though, how you charged into the middle of them. You didn’t seem scared, for someone who’s never seen one before.”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen uglier in the city guard. And had worse fights with my mother.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that. “How many vials of darkspawn blood do we have now?”

“We have…” she counted. “Seven.”

“You know we only need three, right?”

“You can’t have too many vials of darkspawn blood. Oh, look! Is that a flower?”

 

_Mother._

_Bleary eyes and red-veined cheeks, the permeating smell of vat-brewed liquor. A clumsily-executed kick if you got underfoot._

_Rica, are all mothers like ours?_

_I don’t think so, River._

_Better or worse?_

_Different._

_Could you be my mother instead?_

_I’m your sister. That’s good enough._

 

The witch’s mother shared her piercing yellow eyes. Rica had their mother’s red hair, less brittle and dull. She said she’d been a beauty when she was younger, _before you brats sucked the life out of me._ River said she thought it was the drink that did that, and dodged a blow. She’d gotten good at dodging.

 

“Is your mother a witch, then?” Morrigan made even less allowance in her stride, eager to get them close enough to Ostagar that she could leave their company. River scampered to keep up.

“Some would say so, yes.”

“Who would say so?”

“Fools, mostly.” A yellow glare for the men.

“So she’s not a witch?”

Morrigan sighed. “This one asks a lot of questions.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Alistair trudged behind them, chilled and miserable.

“Stop talking to her,” Daveth hissed. “She’ll turn you into a toad.”

“What’s a toad?”

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at Daveth. “I’m not sure she can stop talking.”

“What is it, though?”

“An improvement,” Morrigan muttered.

“I told you,” said Daveth.

“Here.” The dark-haired woman paused at the top of a ridge, the Tevinter ruins sprawled across the marshy land below. “I trust you can find your own way from here?”

River eyed her robes, if you could call them that. “Don’t you get cold?”

She rolled her eyes. “Farewell, Grey Wardens. May your journey take you far, far from here.”

“Thank you, Morrigan.”

“I...well. You are welcome, River.” Her yellow eyes blinked in surprise. “Now go. Your battle awaits.”

 

_Who do I look like, Rica?_

_I don’t know, River. Perhaps your father._

_Who’s that?_

_I don’t know._

_Should I ask mother?_

_No, I don’t think that would be a good idea._

 

_Want to know who your father is, brat? Come on outside with me, I’ll point out a dozen that might be and you can pick one you like._

 

A gaping maw filled with white teeth, the glisten of sinew and scales. Then the image was gone and human faces looked down at her with concern. Alistair offered his large hand and helped her to her feet, strong fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Duncan. He was a kind man. He’d sounded so sad, as he’d run Jory through with his sword. Jory had a pretty wife in Highever, another baby that wouldn’t know a father. She hoped Helena was more like Rica than her own mother. Daveth sprawled on the ground too, the light gone out of his shifty blue eyes. There was a lump in her throat, a pounding pain at the base of her skull.

She lingered after Duncan left, looking at the corpses of her fellow recruits. Not the first corpses she'd seen, and wouldn't be the last. “Are you coming to the meeting with the King as well?”

“No.” Alistair followed her gaze. “I should organise the burning of the bodies. Are you...are you going to be alright?”

“It’s not so different, up here,” she said dully. “There are no castes, but people lie and kill and starve and die, just like home.”

“I’m sorry, River.”

She smiled. “It’s not your fault, Alistair. It’s the way the world is.”

 

 

_Enough out of you. I’m not bringing in coin any more, so Rica has to. Your turn might come too, if anyone wants a skinny, flint-haired, mud-eyed nug runt like you. It’s the way the world is, you may as well get used to it._


	4. Nightmares

River woke, naked and disoriented. Not good.

_But I’m not a whore._

_You’re whatever I need you to be. Have a drink, it’ll be easy. All you have to do is lie there._

A mattress. _Straw_ , that was the word. The surface, not Dust Town. And just like that, she could breathe again.

A shape moved around in the shadowed room, tall and slender. “Morrigan?”

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.”

She recalled arrows punching through her armour, a searing pain. Looking down, could only see the faintest tracery of pale scars, a constellation across her shoulder and hip. “How…?”

“Such brevity! You must have been gravely injured indeed.” She placed the parcel on the bed. “Here, your things. Alas, magic is better for mending holes in people than in clothing.” She turned away to allow the dwarf some modesty. “You carry a great many daggers.”

“What happened? Where are the darkspawn?” Morrigan had busied herself stirring a pot of stew. She was ravenous, she realised. But first, clothing. “How did we get here? What happened to the army? The king?” She poked a finger through the holes in her tunic.

“The questions return.” Morrigan sighed. “Mother managed to save you and your friend, although it was a close call. What is important is that you both live.”

“My friend? You mean Alistair?”

“The suspicious, dimwitted one? Yes.”

“But the army…”

“The man who was to respond to your call quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle.”

“Oh. _Fuck_.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow.  “Indeed. Your king is dead and his forces slaughtered. And before you ask, all the Grey Wardens. Your friend is not taking it well.”

“Well, it’s not the best news, is it?” River secreted her daggers away and scooted to the edge of the bed, mercifully low to the floor. “I have some more questions.”

The witch shook her head. “Of course you do.”

 

So much walking. She almost wished for one of those terrifying - what were they called? _Horse_. Or horses. Which was it? Sheep were not _sheeps_ , but she couldn’t remember the rules for horse.

“Is it horse or horses?”

“Tis a dog.” Morrigan had been sullen since joining them, glaring about the countryside as if it had offended her somehow.

“No, I mean - oh, it is a dog.” One of those stocky war dogs, barrelling towards them at a speed that was frankly alarming. It skidded to a halt in front of her, tongue lolling through an impressive row of white teeth, waving its stumpy tail in the air. “Is it angry? Does anybody here speak dog?”

“River…”

She followed Alistair’s gaze to where the road curved, bordered by forest. “Alistair! I thought we were supposed to sense darkspawn!”

“Didn’t you sense them?” He shrugged. “I sensed them.”

“You did not.”

“You can sense them with your eyes, now, fools.” Morrigan hoisted her staff from her back. “Let us kill them, unless you intend on talking them to death.”

“Would that work?”

“No! But it may yet work on me.”

“There's hope yet, then.” Alistair drew his sword with a ring of steel.

Soon the road was littered with darkspawn bodies and all four of them were splattered with blood.

“Well done, dog!” The hound stood grinning over a savaged corpse. “You didn’t swallow any darkspawn, did you?”

“Well, this is unpleasant.” Morrigan regarded her soiled robes with disgust. “Is this mangy beast to join us, then?”

“He’s not mangy,” Alistair protested, and the dog barked and wriggled.

“I think this is the dog I helped in Ostagar.” It was nearly as tall as her.

“He was probably out here looking for you.” Alistair said. “What are you going to call him?”

“Call him?”

“His name. He needs a name.”

“Does he?” She considered a moment. “His name is Horse, then.”

Morrigan snorted. “Are you going to ride him?”

“Really? You can ride dogs?”

“Oh, for - forget I said anything. Let us go.”

“Alistair?”

“Yes, River?”

“What do you call more than one horse?”

 

She woke from a series of images, fragmented in her mind. A great trench teeming with darkspawn, the same fanged creature from before. The comforting bulk of Horse lay next to her, and Alistair’s eyes rested on her from over by the fire. It was somewhat disconcerting, to wake with him watching her.

“Nightmare?”

“I don’t know. What’s a nightmare?” She propped herself up on her elbows.

“It’s a bad dream.”

“But dwarves don’t dream.”

“Did you see darkspawn? The archdemon?”

“Is it big? With teeth, like…” She stretched her arms wide.

“That’s the one.”

“Was I in the Fade, then?”

“I...I don’t know, to be honest. Perhaps Duncan…” he trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Alistair.”

“Well, you’re awake now. We should get moving.”

She lay back to catch another moment’s rest.

 

_What are dreams?_

_It’s when your soul wanders the Fade while you sleep._

_What’s the Fade?_

_It’s where you go when you dream._

 

“Everything up here is stupid, Horse,” she said, and he whined softly.


	5. Origins

River clapped her hands in delight. “Oh! Me too!”

Alistair blinked. That wasn't the usual reaction. He had expected something more along the lines of _What's a bastard?_

“Do you know who your father is? I don't. If he's anything like my mother that's probably a good thing.”

“Um…” He watched as she unlaced her boots, casting about for an answer. He didn’t want to lie outright, but...

“What about your mother?”

“She was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle,” he said, thankful for her short attention span. Short attention span...there was a joke to be made there, somewhere.

“Oh. That's fancy. Mine's a drunk.” She upended a boot and a rain of tiny pebbles spilled into the ground. “Wait - you said _was._ Did yours die?”

“Yes, she did. I never knew her.”

“That must be nice,” she said wistfully, then clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh. That wasn't the right thing to say at all, was it?”

He had to laugh. “Probably not, but don't worry about it.”

“I’m sorry about your mother, Alistair.”

“I’m sorry about yours, too.”

Horse came and flopped at her feet and she buried her fingers in his thick ruff. “And the Arl took care of you?”

“Yes, until he married and they sent me to the Chantry.”

“Because he married? How does that work?”

“His wife didn't want me there. She was worried about how it looked.”

“How did it look?” She dislodged another shower of dirt from her boot. “I’m sure I’d get less rocks in my boots if I was taller. Oh! Because people would think he was your father? Was he your father?”

“No.”

“Huh. Because that would make more sense than taking you in to be nice and then...just not being nice any more.”

“There are worse places than the Chantry.”

“I know.” There was a far off look in her eyes.

“I suppose you do, don’t you?”

She smiled. “Are we having that stew again? The grey one?”

“What would Grey Wardens eat, other than grey stew?”

“I like it.” She shrugged. “I mean, it’s food. Who doesn’t like food?”

His hadn’t been such a hard life, really.

Now she peeled her stockings off and dangled her feet off the side of the log, pink toes wiggling.

“So...what do you think of our new friends?” Their party had doubled in size since Lothering. More, if you counted the dwarven merchant and his odd son.

“Her hair’s so pretty, don’t you think?” River looked wistfully over at the redheaded Chantry sister. “My sister’s hair is the same colour.”

“I like yours better.” He tugged gently on one of her braids and she laughed.

“And Sten is so tall. I mean everyone’s so tall, but he’s _so tall._ He’s like two or three dwarves stacked on top of each other.”

“Two or three dwarves with a bad attitude.”

“He’s not so bad. I mean, he’s a murderer...which is bad. But he hasn’t murdered anyone here yet, so that’s good, I guess?”

“You’re easily impressed.”

She shrugged. “Soft, Leske called it.”

“Who is Leske?”

“My friend. I hope he didn’t get into any trouble after I left.”

“So what did you do, in Dust Town? To bring in coin?”

She bit her lip. “Crime, mostly. Enforcement, protection, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“No.” That far off look again. “No, that’s not what I’d call it.”

It was funny in present company, but he felt like he’d put his foot in it. “Did you leave anyone special behind, in Dust Town?”

She grinned. “There aren’t many special people in Dust Town.”

“There was you, until recently.”

She reached over and squeezed his fingers. “You’re funny.”

There was a shriek from across camp. “Your mangy hound has left a hare in my pack!”

“What? He leaves hair everywhere!” She stood. “I’d better go see what that’s about. Morrigan can’t be that upset about a hair, can she?”

Right, then. Time to make the stew, and not to think about her small fingers squeezing his.


	6. Assassin

“You found...an assassin.”

“Yes. His name is Zevran. He’s an elf.” River was pleased with herself.

“I can see that.” Morrigan looked down her nose at the new addition, who met her glare with frank admiration. “And he is an assassin. One who tried to _assassinate_ you.”

“It’s fine,” said River. “He’s not very good.”

“You wound me,” said the elf. “But I must admit I was bested.”

Morrigan ignored him. “And that is supposed to recommend him? So now we have a failed assassin, a half-cracked Chantry sister - “

“She’s a bard, actually.”

“I stand corrected. A half-cracked _minstrel_ , a Qunari mass murderer, an elderly mage, a golem - “

“Golems are useful.”

“ - a large, dumb beast, and a dog.”

“You forgot the apostate witch,” interjected Alistair.

“Well, I like him.”

“Keep your stray, then.” She stalked away. “I will be over here, where I am less likely to have my throat cut in my sleep.”

“Actually, it would make you rather an easier target.”

“That’s probably not helping, Zevran.”

“I do apologise, my dear Grey Warden. I do not wish to appear ungrateful.”

“Did I mention this is a terrible idea?” Alistair busied himself collecting firewood. “This is a terrible idea.”

Zevran looked around with interest. “So this is camp.”

“It’s nothing very fancy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It is remarkable what fine company can do to brighten up any location.” He smiled over at Leliana, who rolled her eyes and carried on pointedly sharpening her daggers. “I can think of plenty of worse fates than being captured by a beautiful Grey Warden.”

She looked to where Alistair was bending to collect kindling. “He is very pretty, isn’t he?”

Zevran laughed. “My dear lady...I am not blind to your friend’s finer qualities, believe me. But when I speak of a beautiful Warden, I refer to you.”

“Oh good, another funny man.” She took a skin of water from the ground. “I should go and clean up before dinner. Please don’t assassinate anyone while I’m gone.”

“Would you perhaps like some assistance?”

She paused. “Oh. No. Thank you, but I can manage.”

He watched her leave, bemused.

“That’s River.” Alistair dumped an armload of sticks at his feet and smiled. "Wait...did she just call me pretty?"

 

“What’s a prostitute?” River’s brown eyes were wide and curious, and Zevran was not sure of the right way to respond. Surely the dwarves knew about such things?

“A person who sells their body for coin...a whore, if you will.”

“Oh!” She brightened. “My sister's a whore!” As he looked at her, temporarily lost for words, she frowned. “Or, more of a noble hunter now, really. It's more or less the same thing.” She mistook his expression. “It's just what we had to do, you know. In Dust Town you use the currency you have, or you starve. Same in Antiva City, I guess.” She shrugged. She could have been talking about mending boots, or the correct way to build a fire, so casual was her tone.

“And you, my Warden? What was your currency?”

Before the question was out, he regretted it. She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. “Well. Luckily they found better uses for me.” She twirled her daggers, grinned up at him. “She's the pretty one, anyway.”

His eyes travelled over her dark hair, her lively brown eyes, her endearing smile. Her face was lightly sun-kissed, scattered with small freckles, and her skin looked so soft it was all he could do to keep his hands by his side.

“She must be a true beauty, then.”

“Oh, she is! She's got this long hair, and eyes, and...hips.” She was animated again, blades waving around dangerously as she gestured.

“But you also have long hair. And enchanting eyes. And hips. Marvellous hips, if I may say so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not the same.”

“I fail to see how any of these features could be an improvement on yours.”

She tilted her head. “Oh, I know this one. It's called flattery, isn't it?”

He had to smile. “Not flattery, my Warden. A compliment.”

“A compliment.”  Her brow wrinkled prettily as she thought about this. “What do I do with it?”

He laughed. “You need do nothing. Only accept it.”

She narrowed her eyes, considering, then her grin reappeared. “All right then, I accept!” She sheathed her daggers, shook his hand as if sealing a bargain. “I'm sorry for interrupting. Tell me about your mother. Mine’s a drunk, by the way. Used to be a whore, but she doesn’t bring in much coin these days.”

"Ah, yes. Where were we? I was raised in a whorehouse."

"What's a whorehouse? Is it what it sounds like?"

"Yes, River. It is exactly what it sounds like."

 

Hips. She supposed she did have them, after all. She wasn’t the skinny tunnel-rat she had been in Dust Town. Her cheeks had filled out, too, losing that half-starved look Beraht’s men had made fun of.

_Your sister might be the pretty one, but you’re here. It’s just a tumble to sweeten the deal, you don’t have to shack up with the duster. I thought you said you could follow orders?_

Just currency, that’s all. A little extra to sweeten the deal. Once Beraht owned you, he owned all of you.

Sparring with Leske and they’d caught his eye. _You two aren’t worthless as cutpurses, but how’d you like some real work? Have a drink to seal the deal. You can go now. No, him. Not you._

Rica’s tears, _This isn’t what I wanted for you._ And mother, _What does it matter, it’s how things work down here and she might as well get used to it now because it’s not going to change._

There were many worse things in this world than silver-tongued assassins.


	7. Drowning

“What in Andraste's name are you doing?”

“Zevran’s teaching me to swim!” She kicked her feet with a little too much enthusiasm, sending water splashing in all directions.

“Is that what you call it?” Alistair looked in disapproval at the elf’s strong brown arms supporting her body in the slow current.

“I thought that was what you called it.” River twisted to look at Zevran. “That is what you call it, isn't it?”

“That is exactly what you call it, my warden.” She had been unsure at first, the enveloping cold and the water closing around her skin was an alien sensation. Water was a thing you drank or soaked a rag in for washing, not something you should enter any more than you should a tree or a cloud. But she adjusted quickly to the change in temperature, and his hands were steady under her thighs and waist. “A little more gently, if you please. We want some of the water to remain in the river.”

“The river.” She giggled. “Alistair, look! I’m River, in the river!”

“I can see that. And a lot more, besides,” he muttered.

“I assure you Alistair, we are clothed! There is nothing untoward happening - you can see that the Chantry itself has sent us a chaperone.” Leliana smiled and threw a stick in the river for Horse, who ploughed gleefully through the water in pursuit.

“Clothed? You’re less clothed than Morrigan.”

“May I suggest that conducting a swimming lesson in armour would rather _dampen_ our chance of success.”

Alistair blushed. “Coming from you that word sounds completely obscene,” he complained.

“You flatter me.”

“I don’t mean to.” He scowled. “Don’t drown her, will you?”

“Why not join us, my dear Alistair? You can supervise more closely.”

“You’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?”

“Making everything sound like a proposition!”

“It is a proposition.” He laughed. “I am _proposing_ that you join us in the water.”

“Yes, come in!” River cried. “Wait, can you swim? Zevran can teach you, too.”

“Maker’s...yes, I can swim.” He lowered himself to the ground next to Leliana. “I just don’t want to right now.”

“Here, take my hands and see if you can keep your legs afloat." Zevran moved to stand in front of her. "Very good! Soon you will swim like a fish.”

“I think my feet are getting tired.”

“We shall rest, then.” He helped her to stand. The water that was waist-deep on him came almost to her shoulders. She tried not to stare as he waded out of the river, his cotton underbreeches clinging to his golden skin. How had she managed to surround herself with so many pretty people? Swimming was a very good thing indeed.

There was a splash as Horse dropped his stick in front of her, backing up expectantly. The current tugged it out of her reach and she lunged after it.

“River, be careful!” she heard Alistair shout, before the river floor dropped away under her feet and she sank beneath the surface.

Zevran's lessons were forgotten as the water filled her mouth and a rising tide of panic took control of her limbs. She was surrounded by murky light and clinging weeds and the current took her further under as she thrashed, no longer sure which way was up. Then fingers gripped her wrist and she was pulled, arms circling her waist and lifting her out of the water, choking and spluttering.

“I have you, my warden.” Golden eyes on hers. "I have you."

 

“Is the painted elf to remain unclothed?”

He hadn’t moved from River’s side since carrying her back to camp, her small arms looped around his neck.

“It seems to me that having two chilled, soft, weak creatures is an undesirable turn of events.”

“Shale has a point, Zevran. River is out of danger now. You would be warmer in armour, would you not?” Wynne’s eyes on him were far too astute.

“You should change too, Alistair.” Leliana sat on River’s other side by the fire. The warden’s shivering had finally subsided, wrapped as she was in a scratchy blanket and the borrowed warmth of her companions. “You will rust and turn into a statue if you stand around in that wet armour much longer.”

“Hmph. It could only be an improvement,” muttered Shale.

“What were you thinking, wading into the river in full plate? We only have two wardens in all of Ferelden, we don’t need them both drowned at once.”

“I was only trying to help,” Alistair mumbled.

“It has a strange idea of helping.”

Wynne pressed a mug of sweet tea into River’s hands. “Go, both of you. We don’t need to waste healing on a couple of silly boys trying to outdo each other in a contest of who can tolerate wet undergarments the longest.”

He laid a hand on River’s shoulder. “I will return, my warden.”

She looked up and he recalled her wide brown eyes on his face, her small soft body pressed against his chest. “Thank you, Zevran.”

In his current state of undress it was best not to think of such things. Particularly not the way her cotton undergarments had clung to her curves, transparent with water. _Braska_. “I am rather the worst assassin in the world, am I not?”

She smiled and his heart lurched. No, not his heart. It was simple, uncomplicated desire, nothing more. There was nothing to be gained by caring for her, and much to lose.

“Maybe Horse should go and work for the Crows?” Those dark eyes. He must go now, or he would be the one to drown. He laughed and brushed her knuckles with his lips.

“Your armour, Zevran.” Wynne handed him the bundle, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“I am immensely grateful.” Truer words were never spoken. He made his way to his tent, the bundle of armour clutched uncomfortably in front of him.


	8. Beautiful

“Fifteen, and I’ll throw in the girl.”

Eyes flickered in her direction. _Not me. He doesn’t mean me._ “That one?" _No, not me. That’s not my job._

“She’s not much to look at, but she’ll get the job done.”

“I know you have better whores.” The surfacer leaned back in his chair. “You want to insult me with a skinny thing like that?”

“They’re not here, are they? And you want one of them, you’ll have to rethink your price. I’m doing you a favour here. It’s a good deal already, the girl’s just a little extra.”

Her eyes flickered to Leske, his knuckles white on his sword.

“How old is she?” He was a grim-jawed dwarf with pale eyes. Cruel eyes.

“Old enough,” Beraht said.

“How old are you, girl?” She looked to Beraht and he nodded.

“Seventeen.”

The surfacer spat in his hand and offered it to Beraht. “We have a deal then, friend.”

 

River awoke with the taste of acid in her mouth, struggling for air. Canvas. A tent. The comforting bulk of Horse lying next to her.

_Dwarves don’t dream._

_Grey wardens have nightmares._

_Dwarves have no connection to the Fade._

But she’d walked in the Fade, at Kinloch Hold. So what was true? Her throat was uncomfortably tight. _Please, let me dream of darkspawn. Dragons. Demons. Anything else, please._

 

_All you have to do is lie there._

 

She wrapped the blanket around her and stumbled from the tent. Behind her Horse grumbled and moved to the warmth of her vacated bedroll.

“My warden?” Relief flooded her at the sight of his familiar face. Strange, to find more peace in the company of an assassin than in sleep. “What are you doing up so late? Or shall I say, so early?”

“I had a nightmare. I think. I’m still not sure what one is.”

He searched her face. “May I?” Not certain what she was consenting to, she nodded. His fingers rested on her neck and she could feel her pulse skipping against him. “I think you are correct.” His hand lingered for a moment, and she covered it with her own, needing to feel the comfort of his touch.

“It is nearly the end of my watch,” he murmured. “Perhaps you might like to retire to my tent for an Antivan massage?”

“What’s a massage?”

Zevran’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “It is a most effective means of relieving tension.”

She sighed. Tension was definitely a problem. “I think I would like that.”

 

The watch changed and she followed him to his tent. “He’s giving me a massage,” she explained to Leliana, and the bard raised a questioning eyebrow at the assassin, who answered with an enigmatic smile.

He drew her down to her knees and took the blanket from her shoulders, leaving her clad in only her undershirt and smallclothes. “Lie down, my warden,” he murmured, and guided her forward to lie on her stomach, legs outstretched behind her. Deft fingers dug into her calves, the tension in her muscles melting away under his touch. Then her thighs, and she hummed in approval as his thumbs dipped below her waistband to work at her lower back. Upwards, and then he was tugging at her undershirt, and she raised herself up to help him pull it over her head. She was drifting into a state of pleasant drowsiness when she felt the brush of his lips between her shoulderblades, and she giggled.

“Is this part of the massage?”

His touch withdrew and he was silent. She sensed that she had said something wrong.

“Zevran?”

“I apologise, my warden. I forgot how very...literal, you are at times.”

Literal? “Oh! You meant…” She twisted her head to look at him, but the darkness of the tent obscured his features. “We can do that too, if you want.”

“I am sorry.”

She sat up and turned to him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you did not. It is I who was wrong.”

“But...why? I don’t mind.”

“River.” He reached out to brush her cheek. “Have you done this before?”

“Massage? Or sex?”

“So direct!” There was amusement in his voice. “I mean sex, my warden.”

“Of course I have.”

She felt him relax a little. “More than once?”

“Yes.”

He must have caught something in her tone. “By choice?”

Choice? What was choice? She hadn’t struggled. “I suppose so.”

“You - “ He pulled her close and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Oh, my warden. My darling.”

A sick pain settled in her stomach. “You don’t want me.”

“There is nothing I want more in this world.” He ran gentle strokes down her back. “But tonight...tonight I must think on this. On you and I.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No, my River.” He cupped her cheek. “If you would stay, then please stay.”

She let him draw her down next to him and drape the blanket over them both, still feeling that she had made a mistake, had put him off somehow. “Zevran?”

“Yes, River?”

“Do you wish I was taller?”

He laughed. “You are perfect in every way.”

“That’s not true. My eyes are the wrong colour. My hair is ugly. Everyone says so.”

He pulled her tight against him. “Everyone does not say so. And those who do are fools.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “Your eyes are beautiful. Like the grain of dark wood. And your hair is the black of the night sky. Your skin is like rose petals. You are so beautiful, my River. What must I do to convince you of this?”

An old knot seemed to loosen inside her at his words. “Do you think...would you kiss me? I haven’t done that before.”

“Gladly.” He bent his lips to hers, and everything was beautiful.


	9. May I?

She was next to him when he awoke, the grey light seeping through the tent flaps speaking of approaching dawn. The blanket had ridden down to her waist and her lovely breasts rose and fell with her breath. Zevran was loathe to wake her but he had not earned the right to see her so exposed. He tugged the blanket up to cover her.

Her eyes flickered open and for a moment he saw her panicked, before she registered her surroundings. “Zevran?” There was such relief in her voice, it broke his heart.

“I am here.”

She turned and rested her small hand on his chest, still soft and drowsy with sleep. He knew she was a warrior in her own right, a fabled Grey Warden and a rogue who had honed her skills in the unforgiving slums of Orzammar. Still the urge to protect her rose in his chest, the unremitting need to keep her safe.

He had felt it before for a woman equally as formidable. And he had failed so, so terribly.

He could not, again. Yet her soft body against him woke so much more than simple desire.

Her little fingers fluttered against his chest. “I'm happy,” she murmured. “Happy we're here.” She raised her face to his and he had to kiss her, the memory of last night fresh in his mind, her eager responsiveness against his lips, the sweet taste of her on his tongue.

“My warden.” He ran a hand down her face to cup her chin. “Tell me, have you never been with a man who put your pleasure before his own?”

She was confused by the question. “I don't think I've been with a man who put my pleasure anywhere.”

“I suspected as much.” He kissed her again, and again. “May I?”

“I don't know. May you what?”

“Pleasure you.”

“Oh. I don't see why not, if that's what you want.”

He sighed. “My dear River, I very much hope it will come to be what _you_ want.” He kissed her neck, and she shivered. “Tell me if you would prefer that I stop.” A kiss on the swell of her breast. He hesitated. “In fact, tell me if you wish me to proceed.”

“Please,” she sighed, “proceed.”

He slipped the blanket down and took a nipple in his mouth. The soft arch of her body against him was not duty, not sacrifice. He lavished attention on her, reveling in the way she squirmed under his attentions.

“Zevran...I…”

“Your wishes, my dear warden?”

“I don't know!” Her frustration was clear.

“Oh.” He ran light kisses along the soft skin of her belly. “Lie back, my warden. I will take care of everything.”

He felt her shiver as his lips traced a path to her thighs. He hooked his thumbs in her underclothes and dragged them down over her hips.

“Yes?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Yes. Please.”

His tongue found her warm, wet centre, and she arched into him. “Ah! I don't...what is...ohhhhhh.” A finger, and she sobbed and panted, close to broken. “How…oh Zevran...please. Pleeeease.” Her breathing was rough and ragged, and finally she bucked against him, desperate cries wrenched from her throat.

He pressed a tender kiss against her thigh. Still she pleaded. “I need you. Please, I need you. I need you.” He crawled up and gathered her against his chest, shaking.

“I'm here, my love,” he murmured. “I have you. My beautiful, my River.”

"Is that supposed to happen? I never...It never...I don't...Oh, I need..."

"Yes, my love. That should happen. I will make it happen, every time. For you."


	10. Redcliffe

“So you're not just a bastard, you're a royal bastard?”

“I suppose you could say that, yes.” Alistair fidgeted.

“Huh. You win, I guess.”

He hadn't been certain what reaction he would get, but this was particularly...River-like. “Is it a competition?”

“Oh yes. Who's the best bastard? Winner gets a cheese wheel.” She grinned and he felt the knot of tension in his belly dissolve.

“I may hold you to that, you know.”

“But why is it such a big secret? In Orzammar you'd be part of the royal family.”

“That sounds uncomfortable for everyone involved.”

“Not really.” River shrugged. “Beats starving.”

“True. I didn't starve.” His thoughts had moved on to cheese wheels.

“Redcliffe, then?”

Redcliffe. There was an inn there that used to do a rather good lunch. “After you, my lady.”

Her braids swung as she tossed a grin over her shoulder. “This will be fun!”

 

The morning's bad news hadn't dampened River's enthusiasm, or her appetite. She stacked roast beef, a wedge of cheese and a pickle on a huge slice of bread and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth, chewing with vigour. In the midst of a crisis, the inn still served a very decent lunch.

“Is this normal, then?” she mumbled with her mouth half full. “Dead people walking around instead of staying dead?”

“Are you asking if reanimated corpses are normal?” Alistair’s mind was still reeling at the news, and at discovering the seriousness of Eamon’s illness. He had expected to encounter some ghosts in Redcliffe, but nothing so literal.

“Well there were some in that ruin, in the forest.” River washed down the last of her lunch with a swig of ale. “It's getting to be a habit, running into dead people. And there are lots of weird things you think are normal, like horses, and werewolves, and rain.”

“I don't know that I'd call werewolves normal.” He looked to Leliana and Zevran, both scanning the room as if watching for trouble. “Help me out here?”

“It is indeed customary for the dead to remain dead, my warden.” Alistair didn't miss the warmth of the glance between Zevran and his fellow Warden.

“Don't you burn your dead up here? Where are all the bodies coming from?”

He shuddered. “The lake, from the sounds of it.”

“The lake is full of _bodies_? Why? Do people drink from it?” She wrinkled her nose. “That's _disgusting_. Even I think that's disgusting, and I'm from Dust Town.”

“You see him, no?” Leliana murmured.

“The elf? Yes.” Zevran’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger.

River’s eyes lit up. “What's he doing?”

“I don't know, but he looks suspicious.”

“Let's talk to him!” She drained her drink and stood up. “Everybody look threatening.”

“We are threatening, my dear warden.”

“We are, aren't we?” Her eyes shone with adoration when she looked at Zevran, and Alistair told himself that it was concern for her safety that made him feel so uneasy.

 

River was helping put final touches to the barricade, and by the looks of things extracting Ser Perth’s entire personal history as she worked.

“How does she do it?” Alistair wondered aloud. “I'm exhausted just watching her.” Over the course of the day she had cajoled, bribed and bullied her way through the entire village, enlisting the help of a drunken blacksmith, an elven spy, a pack of very shady-looking mercenaries, a Chantry Mother and a small child with a rather nice sword. She showed no signs of slowing.

“Is it not true what they say about Grey Warden stamina?” The elf eyed her with a little too much admiration.

“Grey Warden stamina, yes. Grey Warden relentless cheerfulness is not something I'd come across before.” He looked sidelong at the assassin.”So let me ask you something. What are your intentions with her?”

Zevran did not seem offended or even surprised by the question.“My intention for now is to survive this night. After that, who knows?”

“Don't dodge the question. I'm serious.”

Zevran cocked an eyebrow. “Is this brotherly concern I detect? Or something else?”

“I am just asking what your intentions are.” Damn the elf and his keen powers of observation. “You did try to kill us all, remember?”

He sighed. “Ah, one little assassination attempt and they never let you forget.” The mockery left his voice. “I owe her a blood debt, as she has spared my life. It has brought us... closer together.”

“Yes, I think I heard you getting...closer together,” Alistair muttered.

“I did not take you for a voyeur, my dear Alistair. Such hidden depths you have!”

“Maker's breath! It's a small camp. I'll be sure to pitch my tent further away in future.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No it is not!” He was grateful that the growing dark hid his furious blush. He fought to regain some dignity. “It goes without saying that she's not to be hurt. Not ever.”

“I will say it.” There was a deep sincerity in the elf’s golden eyes. “She will come to no harm at my hands. Not her body, and not her soul. This I swear.”

“I...well, good.” The moment had become uncomfortably intimate. “I'll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Of course. You are, as they say, only human.”

“Maker's...are you smirking at me?”

“What are you talking about?” River had approached silently. Damned sneaky rogues.

“Darkspawn,” Zevran replied. Yes, definitely smirking.

“That's right, darkspawn.”

She slipped a small hand into Zevran’s. “I think we're ready. Are you ready?”

“Ready as we'll ever be to fight the living dead,” Alistair replied with a shudder.

“Good. Let's teach them how to be dead properly.” She glanced up the hill and back, grinning maniacally. “They're coming! See, I told you this would be fun.”


	11. Closer

“Who eees this wooman, Teagaaan?”

“It's not nice to make fun of people's accents.” Leliana’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile.

“Yes well. This is the _wooman_ who threw Alistair out of the castle. I don't want to be nice to her.” River shaded her eyes. “Was it really this far to camp? It seems too far.”

“Maybe your legs have shrunk.”

She glared. “It's not nice to make fun of people's height, Alistair.”

“Don't get short with me, now.”

“Ha! Short. It's funny because I'm short. Oh, I wish Shale was here. She might carry me.”

“She'd sooner step on you.”

River gasped in mock outrage. “It's not nice to step on people!”

Leliana sighed. “Is this your influence, Zevran?”

“Ah yes. I have corrupted our poor warden. Before I met her she was a mere criminal, and now look at her - a criminal who makes fun of Orlesians when their backs are turned.”

“I am Orlesian too, you know.”

“Now now, Leliana,” River said. “Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“You are all terrible.”

“No - terrible is my mother when she hasn't had a drink.”

“Why, what is she like?”

“I have no idea!” River broke into a fit of giggles.

“See, this is why she's in charge,” Alistair said. “She's so level-headed.”

 

Sten disapproved. “We are wasting time.”

“No we're not. Find the ashes, cure the arl, get an army. It's a good plan.”

“And attempting to save this...abomination. It is beyond foolish.”

“He's a child, Sten.”

“He is not. He is a danger to himself and others.”

“Who isn't?” River sighed. “Do you want to lead?”

“Perhaps I should.”

“Oh. Well you can't, so there.”

He looked down at her, silent and grim.

“We have to go to north to get the mages. We can look for your sword while we're there. Sound good?”

He inclined his head in response.

“I'll take that as an enthusiastic yes, then.” Without waiting for a reply she stomped off into the woods.

“Is our Qunari friend troubling you?” A patch of shadows amongst the trees resolved into the shape of an elf, eyes glittering in the darkness.

“You are troubling me.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You're too far away.”

In a few long strides he closed the distance between them, pressing her against a tree and finding her lips with his, kissing her until she was breathless.

“Better?”

She stood on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. “I can't tell yet.”

“I see.” He traced soft lips down her neck. “Am I close enough now?”

“Never,” she whispered.

 

The next night they stopped before the sun disappeared below the Frostback Mountains, making camp by the sandy shore of Lake Calenhad.

“This road will take us close to Orzammar,” Alistair pointed out.

“We don’t have time for Orzammar right now.” River hammered in a tent peg with more than necessary force.

“Are you avoiding it?”

“I’m avoiding it because we don’t have time. We’ll get there.”

“You can go back, you know. You’re allowed to enter as a Grey Warden, to use the treaty.”

“I know, Alistair. Redcliffe first, then we’ll worry about Orzammar. We have a demon-possessed child threatening the safety of an entire village, remember?”

Alistair looked to Zevran, who shrugged. Nothing she said was untrue, after all. But when she headed away from camp he caught up with her, walking at her side in silence.

“Is there something wrong, my warden?”

“No.” They halted by the ruins of a stone hut. “I just needed space.”

He brushed the hair back from her face. “You may be the first dwarf I have met who needed space. Most are all too eager to disappear underground.”

River shuddered. “I’m in no hurry to go back underground.”

“So I see.”

“Please don’t start. I don’t want to talk about Orzammar. Or think about Orzammar. It’s bad enough we have to go there at all.”

“What shall we talk about, then?”

“Let’s not talk.”

“Ah. I only know of one thing that keeps you from talking.” He covered her mouth with his, and she leaned back on the wall and melted into his touch.

“My River.” His hands ran over her breastplate, down to the metal plating covering her hips.”This leaves rather more to the imagination than your old armour.”

“Mmm. Who needs imagination when you have hands?”

He laughed softly. “Ah. This is very true.” His hand slipped between her knees and ran up the inside of her thighs, and she arched into his touch, her lips hungrily seeking his.

His thumb traced the seam of her leggings and she squeaked. “Is that a happy sound, my warden?”

“Yes.” Her arms tightened around his neck. “Very happy.”

He found the fastenings of her leggings. “Can I…?”

“Yes.” Then his hand dipped under her waistband and she cried out, louder this time.

“We are not so very far from camp, my warden.”

“Don't stop,” she murmured. “Please don't - ah!”

“I will not, if you do not wish me to.”

“Oh. OH!”

“You are very vocal, my warden…”

“It's your fault, for being so - mmm - so good at what you're doing.”

“Would you like me to stop, then?” He nipped at the soft skin of her throat.

“Don't you dare - ah - ah - AHHH!”

Laughing, he covered her mouth with his hand.

She froze, rigid, her eyes wide with panic.

“River?” He released her and stepped back. “River? Are you alright, my warden?”

“I…” She breathed in ragged gasps. “I have to go.”

“River?”

She ran.

 

“What did you do?” Alistair shook with fury. “You promised…”

Zevran raised his hands in supplication. “It was a mistake.”

“You promised!”

“A misunderstanding. I did not hurt her. Merely frightened her.”

“Frightened? She's not scared of anything!”

“It is afraid of horses.” Shale regarded them with stony cynicism. “Did the painted elf threaten it with a horse?”

“That is hardly helpful, Shale.” Wynne’s arms were crossed in front of her, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“If I am to be helpful, let me suggest that it would be best to let the painted elf follow it, before it finds itself in some ridiculous predicament. It has a talent for drowning itself, I recall.”

“Where did she go?”

“Towards the lake.” Alistair chewed his lip.

" _Braska_."

"Should we...?"

"Stay. I will find her."

 

_You can go now. No, him. Not you._

Not her.

She shed her clothes and sank beneath the cold water.

 

_What are you - ?_

_Quiet, girl. If you work for me, I need to be sure you can follow orders._

 

_She was still, not struggling. Let it be over with. I won't cry. But she did, and when his hand pressed over her mouth to silence her she couldn't breathe._

 

_Are you alright?_

_I'm fine._

_Did...?_

_I said I'm fine Leske, leave it._

_But -_

_Leave it, I said._

 

Beraht was dead. She killed him. Why wouldn't he leave her alone?

When she surfaced Zevran was at the shore, panic on his face as he scanned the water that didn't entirely abate when he spotted her.

“What are you doing in there? It is freezing.”

“I just needed…” Cold. Quiet. To feel clean again, not to feel the press of a hand against her face. She scooped up a handful of sand and scrubbed at her skin. Hard enough, she hoped, to erase the memory.

There was a splash and he was by her side, close enough to touch but not touching.

“Do you wish to tell me…?”

“No.”

“Very well.” He sank down in the water, his face level with hers. “Can I help?”

“Please.” She turned and pulled her braids over her shoulders.

Firm hands rubbed the rough sand into her back, and she let her eyes drift shut.

“I'm sorry, Zevran.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my warden.”

“You must think I'm crazy.”

“I enjoy a little crazy, from time to time.” He turned her gently to face him. “It is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. I would never intentionally do so.”

Golden eyes in a golden face. River laid a cold hand on his cheek. “Are you sure you're real?”

“I would hardly know if I were not.” He laughed. “But I am told that dwarves do not dream.”

He certainly felt real, when she rested her head on his shoulder and his arms encircled her. “I'm told that too. I don't have good dreams, anyway, so you must be real.”

“This is a good dream, my River?” he murmured.

“The best.”

“May I suggest it would be better if it were to take place somewhere warmer?”

She raised her face and he kissed her softly on the cheek. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“I do, in fact. My tent?”

“It sounds perfect.”

 Another kiss, less soft, this time on the lips. "For you, my warden, I will make it so."

 

 


	12. Happiness

“Your hair is wet.”

“So is yours.”

“Here.” Zevran lifted the end of one braid and loosened the leather tie binding it. River’s dark eyes on his face were impossibly wide, filled with a trust that made his chest tighten. With the other braid freed he worked deft fingers through her damp hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders in a mass of dark curls.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Smiling, she traced small fingers along the line of his jaw. “You're beautiful.”

“Ah, yes.” The elf chuckled softly. “What are we to do, two such beautiful people alone together in a tent?” He couldn't be sure who started the kiss but she melted into him, her arms looping around his neck to draw him closer, and he pulled her little body tight against his own. He broke away to bury his face in her neck, inhaling the damp clean smell of her hair. Lightly he drew his lips against the soft skin at her throat.

“Mmm. I like that.” Her head fell back to allow him access and he darted his tongue against her, earning more sounds of approval.

“What else do you like, my warden?” Her tunic was loosely fastened and it was quick work to pull it over her head, baring her to a linen undershirt. Palms drifted up to cup her breasts. “That,” she murmured. Soft kisses on the round swell of her bosom. “And that.” His hand cupped her buttock, pressing her hips tight against him. “Ohhhh, that.” She was already breathless. Her fingers tugged at the neck of his tunic and he tore it free, tossing it away to hit the canvas wall.

“Lie down.” There was a predatory gleam in his eyes, softened only a little by his satisfied smirk.

River rested back on the bedroll, admiring the gleam of his finely sculpted torso in the lantern glow. She traced a finger down the line of his tattoos and watched his skin shiver.

“Should we put out the light?” she whispered.

“We should not,” and his low voice sent a tremor all the way through her. “I want to see you.” His golden eyes roamed hungrily over her body. “Such beautiful little legs.” Kisses ran from her ankle up to her thigh, then he tugged at the hem of her undershirt. “Such a beautiful little belly.” She laughed and squirmed under his lips. “And so perfect…” A warm tongue circled her nipple and she gasped in pleasure, louder when his hand found her other breast and teased it into a hard peak. “Mmmm...I could do this all day.” He freed her from her shirt and rained kisses on her body, squeezing handfuls of flesh wherever he could find it.

“I think if you did I might explode,” she murmured. Already she felt her heartbeat pulsing faintly between her thighs.

“We cannot have that.” Thumbs hooked in her smallclothes and drew them down and away.

“Are you going to do...the thing you did before?”

Zevran grinned wickedly. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes!” He chuckled. “I mean...please. Oh!” The scratchy blanket resisted her clawing fingers and instead she found his hands where they grasped her hips. Suddenly the idea of falling into the sky seemed less fanciful. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.

“Please,” she mumbled, barely coherent. “Please.”

“My lady?” He paused his ministrations to see her face, wild eyed and needy.

“I need you.”

“You have me, my River.” He kissed a path up her body and rested above her, his sure hands easing her trembling. “This is what you want?”

“Yes,” she moaned, and he filled her.

It was nothing she’d ever experienced before, a slow and steady rocking against her, warm and gentle and...good. Her eyes drifted shut and she banished all unhappy memory, focused on the beautiful slide of him inside her, the tremors running through her limbs, the soft movement of his lips against her jaw. A cry was building inside her chest, her whole body going taut like a bowstring about to release.

“I can’t - I can’t be quiet,” she moaned.

“Come here, my perfect girl.” Zevran knelt back and lifted her into his lap, sliding back into her with a single smooth motion and a sigh of relief when she rested against him. The different angle woke sensations that were new and welcome. She found her body moved of its own volition, her hips rolling into his, arms locked around his neck as if she could press herself inside the secure warmth of his chest.

The building tension returned. Muffled gasps broke from her throat, swallowed up by his skin until she tensed and shivered, coming undone with desperate cries against his shoulder. Zevran covered her noise with his lips, rolling faster into her warmth until his hips jerked upwards and he spilled, his only sound a low gasp.

Still cradling her, he lay on his side and pulled the blanket around them. “Are you happy, my warden?”

“So happy,” she mumbled sleepily, her little fingers resting against his chest. He watched her flushed cheeks, her dark eyelashes fluttering. It was not wise to form a new attachment. He had sworn never again, but as he watched her drift to sleep in his arms he knew he had already fallen.

 

“You look exceptionally well-rested.” Morrigan handed River a bowl of steaming porridge and she burned her mouth on the first greedy spoonful.

“Well-rested.” Alistair snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

“I take it you did not rest well, Alistair?” The witch’s mouth curled in amusement.

“You wouldn’t rest well either, with Horse scratching at your tent for company.” He scowled. “Or with him stealing your blankets and pinning you to the tent wall.”

“Poor Horse.” River blew vigourously on her porridge.

“Poor Horse?” he spluttered. “Did you not hear that he was the one with all the blankets?”

“He must have gotten lonely.” Horse raised his head and whined softly.

“Yes, well. There’s a reason he normally shares a tent with the smallest member of the party. You’ll have to get us another dwarf if you’re going to keep up the current sleeping arrangements.”

There was an unspoken question, and she smiled. “You know, I think I am.”


	13. As You Wish

Alistair traced the cracked surface of the amulet with a trembling thumb. “My mother's amulet,” he said wonderingly. “It has to be. Where did you get this?”

River shuffled her feet, fingers linked behind her back. “Oh, it was...lying around. In the castle. In the arl’s study.” She met his eyes. “In a desk. It wasn't locked!”

Alistair grinned. You could take the girl out of Dust Town, but you couldn't take Dust Town out of the girl. “Well, thank you for ‘finding’ it.” He drew her into a bear hug and she squeaked. “I can't believe you remembered.”

“Unhand my woman, you knave.” Zevran emerged from the stairwell, silent as a shadow.

“You know, I'd find it easier to get used to the whole assassin thing if you didn't lurk about so much,” Alistair complained. “And I'm not a knave, I'm a bastard.” Spoken loudly enough that Isolde gave him a glare as she passed.

Zevran nodded at the closed door. “What becomes of our young friend now, do you suppose?”

“Off to the Circle, I imagine.” He caught the troubled expression on River's face. “It's not so bad. At least it's clear of abominations, now.”

“It's not that.” She watched after the departed noblewoman. “I just...don't get it. She's horrible, right? But she did all that,“ a gesture that presumably encompassed attempted murder by a blood mage and the undead siege of the village, “for him. If the Circle had wanted to take me, my mother would have asked if they would trade in ale.”

“Ah, well she would have been disappointed. They definitely don't trade in ale. In fact it's an exceptionally poor deal for mothers everywhere." He raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "Perhaps they could improve their image if they started offering better remuneration for children.”

River smiled sadly. “Oh well. I'm off to find food.”

“And...she wasn't joking, was she?” Alistair asked once she was gone.

“I would not know, my dear Alistair.” Zevran clapped his hand on the warden's shoulder. “In Antiva City, children are only ever traded for gold.”

“My friends tell the nicest stories,” Alistair said miserably.

The elf smiled enigmatically. “I find the best stories end in, ‘and then they sat down for a hot meal.’ Let us follow our lovely leader's example. Who knows, after all, when we may next eat within the comfort of four walls?”

“I knew there was something I liked about you.” Alistair was cheerful again as they followed River in search of the kitchens.

 

She felt - dwarfed, she supposed was the word - by the huge bed. Half afraid the soft mattress might swallow her up and she'd never be seen again, which is why she squealed when it dipped beside her.

“I was watching the door!” she protested.

Lithe brown arms wrapped around her. “I find the window has more, shall we say, flair?” He nuzzled her neck. “These rooms are so big and draughty. It is impossible to expect one to sleep alone.”

“It's a good thing you found the right room then. Morrigan hates the cold.”

“Hahaha, what an appealing prospect!” He nestled at her back, his thigh slipping between hers. “But I fear she hates company more.”

“Your company, maybe.” River wriggled closer into his touch.

The assassin slid a warm hand under her nightshirt. “Then it is lucky for I that you enjoy my company, is it not?”

“Lucky for both of us.” Her eyes drifted shut as his hand explored the curves of her body, gently pinching and squeezing, eliciting small gasps and moans. He helped her wriggle out of the nightshirt and she shifted her hips, allowing him to slide into her warmth.

“One thing I will say for these rooms,” he breathed in her ear as her leg was hooked over his, “they have marvellous thick walls.” One arm pulled her tight against him and the other traced lazy circles over her body. “They hide all manner of noise.” His fingers drifted down as his hips rocked steadily against her, and she cried out sharply.

“Tell me what you want, my warden,” he murmured.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Faster.”

“As you wish, my love.”

  
It wasn't until later, when he held her soft and sated in his arms, that he remembered the murmured word and felt a cold dread settle in his chest.


	14. Antivan Leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needs an edit, I'm working on it!

“What the nug-loving _fuck_ is that?”

“That...is a high dragon.”

River turned to Alistair, exasperated. “Not Andraste, then.”

“No, I don't believe so.”

“Just as well, I doubt she'd be happy that we killed all her followers.”

Alistair eyed the dragon, watching them balefully from her high peak. “There's every chance she still won't be happy.”

She sighed. “Can we just make a deal with the darkspawn? They can have Haven. Nobody will miss it! Literally nobody.”

“Did you just stomp your foot?”

“It's been that sort of day.” She fixed him with a glare to rival the dragon’s. “Look, I'm not in the mood for fighting dragons today, or whatever fresh stupidity that temple holds. Why don't we make camp in that last cavern and deal with all this...nug crap tomorrow.”

“I don't think I've ever heard you swear so much,” Alistair said. “Do all your curses involve nugs?”

“What should we swear about, the Paragons’ anatomy?”

“I suppose you have me there.” He glanced nervously at the dragon before sheathing his sword. “Camp it is, then.”

“And far as possible from the corpses, if you please. Zevran,” she called. “Stay a moment. I need to speak with you.”

There it was again, the strange attitude he'd adopted of late. “Your wishes?” More resigned than flirtatious.

River waited for the others to depart. “You're acting weird.”

“It is a strange place, no?” He shrugged.

“It's not Haven. You've been funny since…” Since Redcliffe, she realised. “Distant.”

“Ah. Was I distant in your bedroll last night? Perhaps you should ask Morrigan? I do not believe she slept well.”

“Don't make this into a joke,” she said. “And...yes. You were. It's like you're here but you're not here. You don't look at me any more.”

“I am looking at you now, my dear warden.”

“No,” she said sadly. “Not like you used to.”

His face was a mask. “Perhaps we should discuss this at a more…opportune time.”

“We might get eaten by a dragon tomorrow. There's always going to be something trying to kill us. Morrigan will probably smother us in our sleep after last night.”

“I will not allow it.” For just a second, a trace of the old Zevran shone through, before the mask returned.

River sighed. “Speaking of impending death…” She rummaged in her pack. “I should give you these now, before the dragon eats us. Even though you're being an ass. And I have no idea what an ass is, by the way.”

“It is...similar to a horse.”

“That's definitely what you're being, then. Here.” She thrust the boots at him.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Is that…” He held them to his face and inhaled deeply. “I would know that smell anywhere. This is Antivan leather! Wherever did you find it?”

“In a chest in the village.” She grinned, pleased at his reaction. “A locked chest.”

“Can you smell that? Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City.”

“Are you sure that's the boots?”

He laughed. “Now if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder and a corrupt politician, I'd really feel like I was at home!”

“You might have to settle for a freezing ruin, a high dragon and a grumpy dwarf.”

“Grumpy, my River?” He hadn't called her _my River_ in weeks. “What are we to do to lighten your mood?”

She backed up against a stone archway, his hands roaming all over her. “If I'd known you could be bought this easily, I'd have started giving you gifts sooner.”

He took her lower lip gently between his teeth. “If you recall, I grew up in a whorehouse. And you did give me a rather lovely pair of gloves, one time.” His fingers worked at her buckles.

"And right after that you invited me into your tent." She pulled his hips closer to hers. "You are  _such_ a whore."

"You are not the first to remark on it, my dear." Her smallclothes tugged down and over her boots.

“Should we worry about the dragon?” she gasped as his hand ran up her thigh.

He chuckled against her neck. “Let us hope she enjoys the show.”

“Mmmm. Do they call it a high dragon because it nests up - “

“Shhhhh, my River. Stop thinking.”

“I - ohhhhhh.”

 

“Are you _serious_?”

The Guardian watched her, unanswering, and her temper flared even further.

“I could leave or die. Those were my choices. Beraht’s dead, Rica’s taken care of, and mother’s probably passed out drunk in a fancier chair. And you're asking me for, what, regret?” It took a conscious effort not to stomp her foot again. “The money I made doing you-don't-want-to-know-what - “ he probably did know, come to think of it - “barely kept _me_ from starving. So I think they'll be fine without me. Mother probably doesn't even know I'm gone.”

“River,” Alistair muttered. “Please don't punch the Guardian.” She realised her hands were balled into fists, and settled for a cross-armed scowl instead.

The Guardian, seemingly satisfied with her answer, had moved onto her companions.

“And the Antivan elf…”

“Oh, is it my turn now? Hurrah, I am so excited.”

Alistair mumbled another aside. “If he's expecting respect, looks like he got the wrong party.”

“Many have died at your hand,” the Guardian continued. “But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of - “

Zevran snapped. “How do you know about that?” He was properly rattled, more shaken than she'd ever seen him.

“I know much. It is allowed to me.” Again the Guardian was unfazed. “The question stands, however. Do you regret…?”

“Yes. The answer is yes, if you demand to know.”

Was she the only one who'd rather be fighting a dragon right now? He wouldn't meet her eyes. They should have all taken Morrigan's approach and told him where to stick it.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing. It is nothing.” He squeezed her hand, briefly. “Come, we have a task to complete.”

“Oh! That's Leske.” She was momentarily distracted. “I mean it's not, obviously, but that's what he looks like. Case you were wondering.”

 

“I don't get it.” River turned the urn in her hands, squinting as if it might reveal some code. “If the ashes of a dead lady are so valuable, they should be all over the black market in Orzammar.”

“It's not just 'a dead lady’,” Alistair scolded her. “It's Andraste.”

“Yes, fine, a magical dead lady.”

“She wasn't magical.”

“Well these aren't going to be very good ashes then, are they?” She frowned at them. “And they're heavy. Do we have to carry the whole thing?”

“Just a pouch full.”

“What if we run into more sick people? It seems a waste to leave them sitting here. How far will a pouch go, do you think? Does he have to eat them? That's...ew. It's a bit like cannibalism really, isn't it? No it is, it's straight up cannibalism. Is it fair to make someone do cannibalism when they're unconscious?”

_“River.”_

“Fine. I hope you brought a pouch, because I didn't.”

Ashes pocketed, she turned to Zevran. “Now will you tell me?”

“Not yet, my warden. When we return to camp.” He hoped that once she knew the full story, she could still smile at him like she was now.


	15. Rose petals

“River?” She had a hold of one of her braids, tugging and twisting it her hands. Her eyes were on the fire, not on him, and her face was blank in a way he'd never seen it. “Say something, please, my warden.”

“I…” She took a shuddering breath. “It's late. I should go to bed.”

“Do you wish for company?”

“No.” Zevran’s heart sank. “No.” There it was, then. The truth had ended it all. Instead of relief he felt a vast, terrible emptiness. “Goodbye.” She all but stumbled to the tent that had until a moment ago been theirs, retrieving her bedroll and laying it down on the far side of the fire.

“Please,” he said. “River, have the tent.” She was already under the blankets, her back to him.

 

River heard him. She should get up, take the tent, seize some chance at privacy. But pride kept her in place, pride and the heavy knot in her chest that stole breath from her lungs and sent a creeping inertia through her limbs. Anyway, here in camp privacy an illusion - if she couldn't see her fellow travelers it would be all too easy to let her grief take hold and to lose the thread of dignity she clung to as tight as the braid in her hand, tugging painfully at her scalp.

 _I loved her_ , he had said. And _I watched her bleed to death._ Liked he was telling a story, like it happened to someone else. Rinna. An elf with eyes that shone like justice. No wonder he couldn't love her, a drab little Dust Town whore. Less than a whore, an afterthought, a thing to be used and discarded.

Stupid, stupid. River knew he was an assassin, she'd known it from the start. He'd joked, telling her about marks he'd bedded and killed. To think she'd convinced herself that feelings would make a difference, or that he could have those feelings for her. Little River Brosca, of all people. She was nothing to anyone.

 

It was the early hours of the morning watch when Alistair heard it, a muffled, choking sound. He exchanged a worried glance with Leliana. She nodded to a huddled shape by the fire. “Go,” she mouthed.

He shook his head and she frowned, nodded again. _Maker, why me?_ He was the worst possible choice. Of the two of them, anyway. But he squared his shoulders and walked to the fire. He lowered himself awkwardly to the ground.

“River?”

There was a hiccup from beneath the blanket, a sob cut short. “I'm fine.”

“That's good to know.” He sat in silence until a frazzled head emerged from the bedroll.

“Said I'm fine.” She sniffed.

Alistair cleared his throat gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you need me to kill him? I can kill him, if you want.”

“Noooo.” River vanished back under the blanket, shaking with a fresh round of tears.

“Maker,” he muttered. He glared over at Leliana, who gestured at him to do...something. What? Sighing, he reached into his pocket.

“Here,” he said. “Look at this.”

Brown eyes peeked out. “What is it?” She looked closer. “A flower. Is it a flower?”

“You're good at this! It's a rose. Or at least it was, when we left Lothering.”

“A rose?” She eyed the wilted flower with suspicion before turning away, tearfully mumbling something about petals.

“What's that, now?” It seemed all he'd done was make her worse. Maker, he'd rather face a dozen herds of darkspawn than a single crying dwarf.

“Said...skin was like rose petals,” she sniffed.

That did sound like something he'd say. “Well, they normally look a bit nicer than this. More like...well...your skin.” On impulse he reached out to touch her cheek, damp and flushed with crying. “I mean not right now, obviously…” He trailed off lamely.

River hunched tighter in her blanket. “Stay?” Her voice was tiny and tremulous.

“Well, I should be on watch. But I suppose I can watch well enough from here.” He shifted so his leg rested against her back. There were things he'd meant to say, once, about the rose. Now he laid it on the bare ground in front of her. “You keep it.”

“I'll probably lose it,” she mumbled.

“Doesn't matter,” he said. “They still grow, somewhere.”


	16. Everything

River was up before the end of the last watch, hair freshly braided and face scrubbed clean with snow. She banked up the fire and packed her bedroll tight before setting a pot of water to boil for porridge.

“We should be back in Redcliffe within two days, if we set a good pace.” She smiled brightly at the gathered company. “Not sorry to see the back of this place, anyway.”

“Nor I,” said Morrigan. “Indeed, I feel safer amongst abominations and the undead than these superstitious peasants.”

“Which says more about you than it does about them.” Alistair poked a stick in the fire. “How are you, River?”

“Me? Great.” She scratched at her shoulder. “Dragon burn itches a bit, but the poultice got the worst of it.” The message in her eyes was clear: subject closed.

“Redcliffe it is then. Sound good to you, Zevran?”

“Indeed, I can think of no place I would rather be.” The elf stared sullenly into the flames..

“It appears everyone is _happy_ , then,” Narrowed in cold amusement, Morrigan's yellow eyes saw through them all. “How marvellous.”

“Good,” said River. “Good.”

 

“I want a word with you.” Alistair hung back, waiting for Zevran to catch up.

“Ah yes,” he muttered. “Time for more brotherly concern, is it not?”

“I don't think you should be joking.” The warden narrowed his eyes. “You said you wouldn't hurt her.”

“She is hurt, then?” They could see her further down the road, pigtails swinging, chattering with Leliana. “She looks rather well to me.”

“She looks better than you do right now, I'll admit. But you know her better than that.” Alistair came to a halt. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” In the face of the other man’s glare, he relented. “I merely shared with her some...details...of my past life. She did ask.”

“So, let me get this straight: she knows you're an assassin and she's fine with it, but whatever you told her last night had her sleeping out in the snow and crying into her pillow?”

“I…” He had seen her too badly injured to walk, had seen her face down countless terrors and some of the worst cruelties man or demon had to offer. He'd never seen her cry. “I did not know.”

“You knew she was upset. What did you say to her?”

He sighed. “That, I cannot tell you. I am sorry.”

“You need to fix this.” Alistair’s voice was steely. “Whatever it is, she can't carry it. She has enough to deal with.”

“She does not wish to talk to me.”

“Not good enough. If this isn't resolved by the time we get back to Redcliffe, I'll have Teagan throw you both in the dungeons until you sort it out. And if I find out this is your fault somehow, I'll have him leave _you_ there.”

“I believe you.” Zevran adjusted the pack on his shoulders. “Now, if I may? We are getting left behind.”

 

River sat for a moment, her arms wrapped around her knees. It was strange to be back in her tent with the knowledge that she'd be sleeping alone. There'd be no golden-skinned arms wrapped around her, no sleepy kisses deepening to more. Those things were not meant for her.

Leave the past where it falls, Sten sometimes said. She had applied it well enough to her own past, but it didn't stop her from digging around in Zevran’s, and now she had learned what couldn't be unlearned.

She was down to just a long undershirt when there was a soft footfall outside the tent. Deliberate, he could move in silence if he chose. “What do you want?” she called.

Zevran must have seen her freeze slightly when he blocked the entrance, because he quickly moved to sit near the far end of the tent. “We must talk, you and I.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“It is a terrible thing I did, I will admit. But I am not that man any longer. I regret what happened, my every waking minute.” He reached for her and she flinched away. “You are afraid of me now, my River? What has changed?”

“Of course I'm afraid of you. I was stupid not to be afraid before! How can you love someone and then just...not, enough to laugh at them while they die? How can I trust anything you feel, or _say_ you feel?" She stood, hands clenched at her sides. "And if you can do that to someone you're supposed to love, what…” she hated how small and fragile her voice sounded, “could you do to me?”

“But my warden, I - “ he faltered. “I have told you, there are many reasons why I do not wish you harm.”

“Oh yes? And what happens when you get a better offer?"

“There is no offer that could convince me to hurt you, my grey warden.” The words seemed to cause him pain. “I care for you. Love you, in fact.”

He couldn't seriously believe she'd fall for that now. It was cruel of him to say it.

“Get out.” When he didn't move she picked up her boot and threw it. It glanced harmlessly off his shoulder. “Out, I said! Leave me alone.”

“I cannot.” His sorrowful expression just infuriated her further.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I'll go.”

She was outside in the frigid air before she knew what she was doing, barefoot and freezing in only her nightshirt. One way lay the campfire, a handful of her companions still gathered around it. The other way the forest, its paths lost in murky darkness.

“River, wait.” Zevran's features were hidden in shadow. He reached for her arm and she pulled away, running headlong into the black space between the trees.

She stumbled, all but blind in the dark woods. Branches scraped against her skin. The forest floor was soft and damp beneath her feet and a root caught her foot, throwing her hard into the ground, and as she landed all she could think of was his laughter, her cut throat bleeding out on the forest floor. When a sound from behind her spoke of pursuit she scrambled up and ran onwards. At last she lost her footing again and fell forward, heart lurching when she grasped only empty air.

Just as suddenly strong hands seized her legs. She dangled for only a second before she was pulled back and wrapped in a vise-like grip. Her knees dug into the loose soil, fighting desperately against his grasp.

 

Zevran was surprised as much by her strength as by her wild panic, the way she thrashed and tried to squirm free of his grip. If he let her go in this state she would flee blindly on, over the drop from which he had just saved her or worse. Healing magic would not save her from a broken neck.

So he held on as she struggled. Her head struck his lip and she nearly slipped free. In desperation he grabbed her hair, looping the dark braids around his wrist and holding them close to the nape of her neck. His other arm still wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms, he pulled her head back and held her tight until finally she stilled against him, breathing hard.

“Shh, River. Shh.” He prayed to whatever gods he could think of that nobody had followed them - if they came upon this scene they would most likely slay him, and he couldn't say he would blame them.

The ragged edge of her breath softened, and at last she went limp in his arms. He did not release her, but he relaxed his grip and she didn't struggle.

“Are you alright, my River?”

“I can't,” she whispered. “I'm scared.”

He kissed her neck, feather-light. “There is no need.” She was so soft in his arms.

“I can't be hurt any more. I know it's how the world is, but I can't. It's too much, Zevran.”

His heart broke for her, even as he took her earlobe gently between his teeth and felt her shiver. His arm around her waist tightened again.

“Are you afraid now, my River?”

She leaned into his touch. “No.”

“What do you need?” A hand still wrapped loosely in her hair, he lowered her down until her hands were splayed on the leaf litter beneath them.

“You,” she whispered. “Just you.”

"You have me."

 

“Are you sure he's not killing her?” Alistair's hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “It really sounds like…”

“Trust me, Alistair,” said Leliana. “He's not doing anything she isn't happy with.”

“It is correct,” said Shale. “I have witnessed plenty of both and the noises are quite distinct.”

He blushed. “I told him to talk to her, I guess I just imagined the conversation would go...differently.”

“Well, it seems to have been successful. Well done.” The bard smiled. “I, for one, am going to bed. In fact I have been in bed for quite some time now, sound asleep.”

“Oh, me too,” said Alistair. “Dead asleep. Didn't hear a thing.”

Shale let out a long sigh. “For once the weak demands of the mortal body work in their favour." Another noise drifted out from the depths of the woods, somewhere between a shriek and a wail. "I, for one, heard _everything_.”


	17. Sunshine Itself

River was surprised to find the fire had been banked high in her draughty room in Redcliffe Castle - the depleted servants were stretched thin to accommodate guests, even ones accustomed to little in the way of luxury. The thing she noticed next as she closed the heavy wooden door was the elf on her bed, a tattooed elf with a self-satisfied smile.

To find him in here shouldn't have come as a surprise, but she noticed the sharp jolt of fear before it ebbed away.

“Make yourself at home,” she muttered. She gathered the folds of her borrowed human-sized robe around her legs so as not to trip on them.

He smirked. “I always do.” He lay propped against the headboard, shirtless, legs crossed at the ankles. “I trust your bath was satisfactory?”

 _What's that?_ A tub big enough to drown a dwarf in, steaming and fragrant with scented oils.

Leliana's tinkling laugh. _It's a bath, River._

_Ah! It's hot! Should it be hot? What's that?_

_It's called soap._

She sighed. “The bath...I haven't felt so clean in - oh, I don't think I've ever felt this clean.”

“You smell delicious.” His predatory smile did nothing to ease her nerves. She wrapped the robe tighter.

“You sound like you're going to eat me.”

“The night is young, as they say.” Zevran gleamed golden all over in the light of the fire - his hair, his skin, his unblinking eyes. “So, the Arl is well and we have our third army. Where to next, I wonder?”

“Ugh. Aren't three armies enough?” She hopped up on a chair by the fireplace, welcoming the reprisal for her aching feet. “That seems to me like a lot of armies.”

“You have seen the darkspawn horde, no? Tell me, can one have too many armies when facing such a threat?” He uncoiled and moved to her side on soft feet. “Is Orzammar so very terrible, my warden?”

She let him gather her in his arms and rest his chin on top of her head. “I used to think the world was terrible,” she murmured. “Then I saw more of it, and I thought maybe it was just Orzammar. And now I think the whole world is terrible in a way, but Dust Town is maybe the worst place of all.”

“Antiva City is far from perfect, my warden. There is poverty, and injustice, and cruelty.”

“But you miss it,” she said, tilting her head back to look at him. “You have reasons not to go back, but the thought of it seems to make you sad in a happy way. Not in a can't breathe, walls closing in, sick to your stomach kind of way.”

“Would you not like to see your sister again? And your friend?”

There it was. She felt the knot form in her throat. “I'm afraid they won't be there any more. Or…” Softly he stroked her hair, and she found the strength to speak again. “Or they'll remind me of Dust Town, and everything my life used to be, and I'll hate them for it.”

Zevran crouched down at her side, studying her face intently. “I do not believe you have it in you, my River, to hate the ones you love.”

“You did,” she said dully.

“Ah.” He pushed back the overlong sleeve of her gown and found her hand, placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “But you are not me. You are a rare and precious soul, full of wonder and kindness. You are sunshine itself.”

She shook her head. “There's no such thing as sunshine in Orzammar.”

“Shall we run then, my warden?” His fingers closed over hers. “Take ship to the Free Marches, or Nevarra, or Rivain? Let the Blight swallow Ferelden and Orzammar along with it.”

“I can't.”

“I know." The firelight danced on his skin. "That is not you, my dear, to hide from your battles.”

“Almost everyone there wants to kill me. Or at least drink ale while watching my execution. Can't Alistair do it? He's a warden too.”

“If it is such a vipers’ nest, would you send him in there alone?” A smile tugged at the corners of Zevran’s mouth. “Imagine him lost in the dark corners of the dwarven city, bumping his pretty head on the door frames. Orzammar is said to be in turmoil - would you send him into this brewing storm alone, our poor innocent Alistair?”

“I don't know what brewing has to do with it, but he wouldn't be alone. And I don't know any more than he does about dwarven politics!”

“Court politics are no different to underworld politics,” he said. “Only the currency is different.”

River leaned against him. “I know I have to do this. I just...hate it.”

Zevran kissed her temple.“Would it help to tell me about it? I am a most excellent listener.”

 _Leave the past where it falls_. Lately, it seemed to fall all around her like a cave-in.

“One day, I might. For now, could we...could we just sleep? It's been such a long week.” The cold of Haven had only just dissipated from her bones, and the path ahead was a yawning chasm.

Strong arms scooped her up and carried her to the bed. She let him remove the oversized robe and tuck the blankets around her. Her eyes drifted shut.

“I shall leave then, my warden.”

“No,” she murmured, reaching to clasp his hand. “I said we would sleep. I didn't say alone.”

With his warm body folded around her, she drifted for once into the silent sleep of a dwarf and not the nightmares of a Grey Warden.


	18. To the Waking Sea

“One last detour, then Orzammar.”

“Come on, River,” Alistair argued. ”It's not that far.”

“But Denerim is just to the east. We’re carrying too much junk. Let's sell off what we don't need, get better armour and weapons, see if we can find a use for these dragon bits. And find your sister, and whoever's trying to kill Leliana. You don't want Leliana to die, do you?”

The little warden's arms were crossed and her chin raised in defiance. “Well, no.” Alistair could sense when he was backed into a corner. “Morrigan, perhaps, but Leliana, no.” And he _did_ want to find his sister.

“So Denerim first? Then the dwarves.” River nodded, satisfied. “Off we go then.”

 

They camped by a rocky incline, where the Drakon River spilled into a wide pool before carrying on its slow journey towards the capital.

River was surer now in the water, ducking beneath the surface to rinse the dirt and sweat of the road from her face. She dug her toes into the sandy river bottom then drew her legs up and kicked lazily, bobbing like a cork in the slow current.

“My warden.” Zevran broke the surface. “Look at you, swimming. Not yet like a fish, but like a rather fetching dwarf, may I say.”

The cool water around her and the sun warm on her face, she felt an abrupt surge of happiness. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, let him lift her into a breathless embrace.

“May I take it you and your would-be killer are once more blissfully happy, then?” Morrigan's sardonic voice drifted from the rocks above them. “I am so pleased.”

“Leave them be, Morrigan.” The bard lay back on the riverbank, long legs resting in the water. “I think it's cute.”

“Cute, is it? There is room for one more.” Zevran swung River in a circle and she laughed, clutching tightly to him.

“Not that cute.” Leliana rolled her eyes. “Take all the room you need, please.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “May I show you something?”

“Anything.” River grinned and let him kiss her, deposit her gently back into the water and lead her by the hand beneath the waterfall.

It was dark but not oppressive, light spilling in through the curtain of water. But loud, so loud. The river crashed against itself and the force of its joining sent a roar echoing through the stony chamber. He pressed her against the stone ledge and kissed her hard, a warm tangle of tongues and lips and her fear was forgotten in the memory of sunshine and the way her body was drawn inexorably, warmth seeking warmth, to his.

He spoke something in her ear, but she couldn't make out the words. Shouted, laughed, and she laughed with him when the sound was lost among the collision of water on water. She was lifted and deposited onto the wet stone, hips pulled forward into him pressing hard against her. The spray was a cool kiss against her skin. Scant clothing peeled away, lips and hands and bodies joining, and it didn't matter a bit how much she screamed and cried because all was lost in the onslaught of noise.

Forget the past and Orzammar. Forget the future, and Orzammar. Forget agonising about love or the lack of it. Forget, forget, forget. Let their laughter and their tears and their cries of joining be lost amongst the crashing waters and washed into the river, washed away to the Waking Sea.


	19. Out for Themselves

“What’s that?” River wrinkled her nose at the taste.

“It’s dwarven ale,” said Alistair. “Isn’t that what you drink in Orzammar?”

“Not like this. I mean, this is better than the piss in Dust Town. But still...here try it.” She pushed the tankard across to him.

“Maker,” he spluttered. “That’s...that’s horrible.”

“Right?” She seized his tankard, a pale Ferelden lager. “You have that one and I’ll finish yours.”

“Oh, that’s not fair.” He regarded his murky beverage with downturned lips. “Yours cost more than mine did.”

“If you get a taste for it, it’s much cheaper in Orzammar.” Zevran noticed any time she said _Orzammar_ a change came over her, a barely perceptible curl of her lip. “What does _gnawed_ mean?”

“Chewed.”

“Chewed Noble.” A slow smile spread over her face as she looked around the spacious taproom. “I like it.”

Alistair glanced towards the back rooms where they had secured lodging for the night.“How does Leliana seem to you?”

“Sad.” She chewed her lip. “Did we do the right thing?”

“I do not believe this Marjolaine was the type to ever let this rest.” Zevran spoke with the authority of not only an assassin, but one who lived with the prickling unease of knowing he was a target. “Leliana knows as much. But will take her some time. They were, I believe, close.”

"Plus she deserved it."

"She did, at that."

“Wait…” A flush crept up Alistair's cheeks. “When you say close…?”

“And how are you, Alistair. Better?” River silenced his train of thought with a small hand clasped over his.

“Well I was starting to, until some horrible dwarf stole my drink.” Hurt lingered beneath his smile. “Although I think this...whatever it is...is stronger than normal ale.”

“You don’t need a sister, Alistair. Not that one, anyway. Ugh. If you really want one you can have mine.” She snorted. “Everyone else has.”

“River!”

Seeing their shocked faces she pushed the tankard back towards Alistair in horror. “Fuck, that was awful. Please. Take this away before I turn into my mother. I do love her, you know. My sister, not my mother. She didn’t have a choice, any more than - anyway, I’m going to bed. It’s another long march tomorrow. Please forget I said that. Shit.” She slipped down from the chair and wobbled a little on her feet. “No, there it is. I’m my mother. Kill me.”

“If you will excuse us my dear Alistair, our fearless leader may require some assistance.” Zevran drained his own drink before standing.

The warden frowned at his two pints. “I seem to remember drinking alone is a bad thing.”

“I do not think we can judge you for finishing your ale.” He picked up the dwarven brew and sniffed it. “But to drink this, I think, would be the act of a desperate man.”

“Good night, Alistair.” River pointed an unsteady finger. “And remember what I said.”

Zevran followed her, walking with more stability now that she had her bearings. “Do you really believe what you said earlier today? About Alistair’s sister?”

“Well I don’t normally use that word.” She had to stretch to use the door key but resisted his efforts to help. “She is one though, isn’t she?”

“You may be right, my warden, but that is not what I meant. The other thing you said…”

She looked at him in surprise. “About everyone being out for themselves? Don’t you?”

Buying time to choose his words, he looked around the drab room. Clean but poor, the hangings faded and the rug worn. Still there was a sturdy bed with a mattress well-stuffed with straw, a merry fire in the grate.

“I suppose at one time I did. I have known people to make sacrifices for love, but even love can be a kind of selfishness.” He sat on the side of the bed. “What of your sister? Did she not care for you?”

River groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Yes. She cared for me, and she stood up for me. And the best I can offer her is cheap jokes.”

“You did not mean it.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” Her voice trembled. “She went through everything I went through, a hundred times worse and a thousand times more. Just because she did it in a pretty dress doesn’t make it better.”

“River.”

“You guessed it anyway.” Her wide eyes were dry, only the pale set of her face and the slight shake of her lip hinting at the darkness welling up inside her. “Didn’t you?”

“Some,” he confessed. “Do you wish to tell me more?”

“Not really. Would it help?” She took his outstretched hands and he felt her shivering like a bird.

“I believe it would.”

“Right then.” A deep breath. “Two things - I’m going to need more drink.”

“I have some brandy. But are you sure that’s a good idea, my warden?”

“It’s definitely not, but it’s what I’ll need.” He knew better than to argue with that set of her jaw.

“And the second?”

“Help me out of this armour.” She stood and let him unfasten her buckles, laying aside plate and leather, lifting her travel-stained tunic over her arms. Then he sat her on the bed and took off her boots and socks, one by one, before retrieving the bottle of Antivan brandy. Small fingers wrapped around the glass, she sat cross-legged before him on the bed.

Digging up the past. As she spoke she toyed with a loose thread on the bed covering, glancing up from time to time in search of - disgust? Judgement? He had neither to offer.

The first time, after taking the job with Beraht. Bent back over a table, pretending to be anyone or anywhere else. His hand pressed hard over her mouth. “Just once,” she said. “Just to prove to us that he could. To me, to Leske, to everyone.” Too young. “Fifteen?” she guessed. “Or sixteen. I don’t know exactly how old I am.”

And a handful of times after that - an incentive on a deal, or a reward to one of his henchmen for a job well done. In between the day to day brutality of her work and she never knew when it might come, would try to make herself invisible at the back of the room while the deals were hammered out, forgetting to breathe.

When it did happen it was never violent, not really. Perfunctory, business-like, conducted when she could manage it in a haze of alcohol. No worse really than having to threaten the last scrap of owed coin out of a duster, knowing his bad decisions would leave his family hungry. Or having to make good on a threat, mark a face or cripple a hand. Orders to kill and not always in a fight. Compared to that a few minutes on her back seemed a small sacrifice, but it wasn’t those jobs that made them leer when she passed. Nobody called her _whore_ for killing.

“He’s dead.” Her eyes shone feverishly at the memory. “We killed him, Leske and I. He’d have killed us otherwise, and hurt Rica, but it was good. I wished I could kill him again. Is that wrong?”

“No.” He would have reached to touch her but there was something guarded about her in this moment, a private stillness he was loathe to invade.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. There’ll be someone just like him in charge now, or worse. Probably Jarvia. I did leave them, didn’t I?” She wrapped the loose thread around her finger and pulled until it went white. “I ran away and left them for Jarvia.”

“You spoke the truth to the Guardian. There was no choice.”

“Everything’s a choice. We should have left years ago - we might have frozen or starved to death, but at least we’d do it in the fresh air. And free.”

“Not everybody on the surface is free, my warden.” Whores and beggars and cutpurses and thugs existed in every corner of Thedas, and those who pulled their strings from the shadows.

“I know.” She laughed. “Thanks for reminding me that life is shit everywhere.” Placing her glass aside, she rose to her knees and kissed him clumsily, hungrily, the brandy sweet on her breath.

“We don’t have to do this now, my River.” He broke away from her lips, already painfully aware of his body’s reaction to the warm press of her against him.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him gently beneath his ear. “Wrong.” She leaned back to lift off her undershirt and his arms slid around her bare waist, seemingly independent of thought.

“If this is what you need…” he murmured.

“You have to ask?” They rolled until she was beneath him and she stared up, her eyes once more trusting.

River. Hard but soft. Young and old, innocent and ruthless, brittle yet unbroken. He fell willingly into her and the shadowy past was banished from their little room in Denerim.


	20. Return to Orzammar

They were an odd group to be walking in the Orzammar commons. An elf, a heavily armoured human and an undersized golem. As the only dwarf, River should have been the one to blend in.

But she was the one the crowds parted around, the one who drew mutters of consternation and disgust. A few even spat on the ground as she passed.

“It's so good to be home.” If she smiled any harder her face would crack.

“Are you certain we cannot just slay them all, my warden? It seems to be the done thing in these parts.”

“I doubt it would help our cause,” muttered Alistair. “But I can't say I'm against it on principle.”

“If I were to squish a few by accident…”

“It's fine. I'm fine.” Three sets of eyes turned to her, two skeptical, one flinty and skeptical. “I'm not just a brand. I'm a stain on the honour of the ancestors. They'd rather my head was on a pike over the marketplace.”

“They do that?” Alistair craned his neck, searching for pikes.

“No,” she admitted. “Once they cut my head off they'd probably just throw the whole lot into the lava.”

Even Shale seemed to blanch at the thought.

“What did it do, to stain its ancestors so terribly?”

“Not my ancestors. I don't have ancestors.” She glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. “I fought in the Proving.”

“This is a bad thing, I take it?” Zevran asked.

“You have no idea. And worse,” a tiny hint of pride crept into her voice, “I won.”

“But of course you did.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “If you can defeat all those foes in single combat, these smiths and merchants should offer no challenge.”

“I don't know,” she said sadly. “They use different weapons.”

 

“I can't go in there.”

“Of course you can,” Alistair said. “We've talked about this. You can go anywhere.”

“You don't understand.” She shook her head desperately. “It's the Diamond Quarter. I can't go in there.”

“Look, what's the worst that can happen? They attack you? We can take them.”

“Worse than that.”

“What, then?”

“They'll look at me,” she said miserably.

“River, look at me.” Zevran tilted her chin up. “They should look at you. You are magnificent. They should throw themselves at your feet.”

“I would not go that far,” Shale grumbled.

“I would go further.” He glared at the golem. “They should shower you with praise and offer untold riches to thank you for returning to this dismal dwarf-hole. They should beg for your protection and forgiveness.”

“They won't do any of those things.”

“Then they are fools, for that is what you deserve.” He laid his hand on her cheek. “And we are with you, every step of the way.”

She smiled. “Well I suppose, when you put it like that…”

“That's more or less what I said,” Alistair mumbled. “I mean, it's what I was getting at.”

“Shall we then, my warden?”

“We killed a dragon, didn't we?”

“We did.”

“Let's go, then.”


	21. Dust Town

“They're forged,” Alistair said. “He just admitted as much. Surely there's no way we can use them?”

River turned the documents in her hands. It could never just be simple, could it? Each quest took them on more quests, and why should Orzammar be any different just because every fibre of her being screamed against being trapped down here?

“We need a king on the throne,” she said. “We're getting no help without one.”

“But you heard what they're saying about him. That he killed his brothers, maybe his father too. We can't support him just because of your sister!”

“Is that what you think?” she snapped, and heads in the tavern turned. And shook: see, this is what you get for allowing a brand into Tapsters, grey warden or no. The irony wasn't lost on her, that she'd been more welcome there as a carta thug than she was now. Of course in present company she was bound to draw attention.

“Harrowmont might be the more honourable candidate,” she continued quietly. “And Endrin before him was probably honourable, and whatever blighted king came before that. Do you know what honourable means, down here? It means nothing changes.”

Alistair set his jaw stubbornly. “It doesn't seem so bad. I mean there's some crime, but you get that everywhere. And the Diamond Quarter is a fair bit nicer than down here, I'll admit…”

“Stop there,” she said, rising from her seat. “I need to show you something.”

 

Dust Town smelled of raw sewage and desperation. Round-bellied children stared listlessly from doorways. Beggars watched with hollow eyes as they passed, too apathetic to do more than hold up a beseeching hand for coin.

“Don't,” she said as Alistair fished for his coin purse. “You'll end up with a flock of them following you around. And no purse. Probably with your throat cut.”

They seemed an unlikely group to attack, Zevran reflected, armed and armoured as they were and with a stone golem in tow. That hadn't stopped the group that waylaid them earlier. “You don't want to do this,” River had warned them, but they did, and now their corpses were being picked clean by urchins.

“She knows we're here,” River said dully.

“Who?” Alistair narrowly skirted a pile of filth.

“Jarvia.”

Despite her warnings, River stopped to talk with a beggar woman she recognised. She was forthcoming about the carta’s activities, but Zevran knew it was was for Alistair’s benefit that River drew out the story of how she'd become crippled, forced by city guards to kneel in dung until her knees were ruined.

Alistair noticed that she pressed ten silvers into the woman's palm. “Wait, I thought we weren't supposed to encourage the beggars?” he asked when they were out of earshot.

She shrugged. “It's different. I'm a duster.”

“So it's alright for...dusters to give away coin?” The logic of this escaped the warden.

River laughed. “Of course not. Dusters don't have coin.” She spied a woman across the alley, her clothes less threadbare than most. “She doesn't belong here. We're going to talk to her.”

For Alistair’s benefit again, when she asked why the woman's baby was casteless.

“They want you to leave him in the deep roads?” he asked, horrified. “Why?”

“Why do you think, Alistair?” River said. “If you'd been left in the deep roads as a baby, where would you be now?”

“Well, I'd be - oh.” His shoulders slumped. “I'm so sorry.”

“Take your baby to the surface,” River said, and Zevran heard a hard edge in her voice. “There are no castes there. Dwarves look after each other.”

“Really?” Hope dawned in the woman's eyes. “Is it safe?”

“If you go north you should avoid the Blight.” At her shocked expression, River shrugged. “If we're successful here, it won't spread further. And if we're not, Orzammar won't be safe. But your baby will be dead by then. Probably you as well, if the carta doesn't find a use for you.”

“River!”

The dwarven woman was oblivious to Alistair's shock. “I'll go to the surface, then. Thank you. Oh, thank you!” River was bemused when she kissed her hand before hurrying away.

“Was that necessary?”

“It was necessary, and it was true.” Half an hour in Dust Town, and she had become ruthless. “Look around you. This is the Orzammar men like Harrowmont fight to preserve. Tell me a little forgery is worse than this.”

Alistair clung to optimism. “Your family came out of it alright.”

Zevran worried for a second she might fly at him then, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Something Zevran himself would be unwilling to do, in the rancid bowels of Dust Town. “I can see how it might look that way.” She pointed to a nearby hovel. “Come and see my home.”

Windowless, joyless, hopeless. Bottles still littered the table where her mother drank the days away. “That's where she used to entertain guests as well, if you get my drift.” Alistair blushed crimson.

She pointed out the narrow bed she had shared with her sister. Greasy soot covered the walls and ceiling. “We tried to keep it clean, but it's more filth than wall to be honest.” The floor was uneven dirt. She laughed at the sight of the back room. “I didn't know what that tub was for, until I went topside. Rumour is there used to be running water down here some time around the third blight.” She ran a hand over the stone. ”Everything's even smaller and nastier than I remembered.” Her voice was soft and sad. “They should burn this place down.”

When she looked up again it was with a fixed, bright smile. “Seen enough of Dust Town, then?”

Alistair shuddered as something pale and many-legged ran by his foot. “Maker, yes.”

She tapped the forged documents against her hand. “And who do we support?”

He smiled without joy. “All hail King Bhelen.”


	22. Mother

Zevran disliked this Bhelen. He disliked his easy assumption that the wardens would happily run his errands for him. He disliked the way he called River “little sister” while his eyes attempted to bore through her breastplate. Most of all he disliked the fact that he was sending her back to Dust Town to face the woman she feared most.

“This is truly what you want, my River?” he murmured. “It seems a foolhardy mission.”

“Those are what we're best at,” she answered. “Now, Rica should be around here somewhere…”

The contrast couldn't be more marked between the Dust Town hovel and Rica’s lushly appointed suite. The only thing marring the decor was a haggard, stringy-haired woman, swaying a little on her feet as she stared about her with bleary-eyed discontent. Zevran suspected he knew who she was.

The baby was gathered up and presented for approval and he saw River’s eyes go wide with wonder as his tiny fist closed around her finger.

“Oh Rica, he's…” Lost for words, she could only shake her head. “Brown eyes?”

“I don't mind,” her sister said. “I always thought your brown eyes were pretty.” He saw her face glow at the compliment, and Rica went up several points in his estimation.

“This is Alistair,” River said, holding the baby up for inspection. “He's a royal bastard too. And this is Shale. Shale is a golem.”

“Why does it talk to the tiny dwarf?” Shale was unimpressed. “Its underdeveloped brain can hardly make sense of the words.”

“Don't worry about the cranky golem,” she murmured. “And this is Zevran. He's…” She looked at him and a grin spread across her face. He saw Rica glance curiously between them.

“An elf, my diminutive prince.” He gave a theatrical bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The prince blew a spit bubble. “That means he likes you,” River said. “I'm sure of it.”

Rica prised the baby from her reluctant hands. “You should say hello to mother,” she whispered.

“Should I?”

“River…”

“Rica…” She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Mother watched her approach with disinterest.

“Hello, mother,” River said quietly.

Clarity stole over the woman's face, followed by a sneer. “Well, look at you. All fancied up. You find some princeling to give you pretty clothes while he sticks it to you, like your sister?”

River smiled in return. “It's true, they hand them out to you when you reach the surface. You should go quick and get yours, before they run out.”

“You've still got a smart mouth on you, brat.” Red eyes narrowed in anger. “Running off to the surface. You ever think to share some of that fortune with your mother?”

“Yes, mother.” River looked around at the opulent suite. “I can see you've fallen on hard times.”

“I've seen how they look at me,” she slurred. “Think I'm gutter trash.”

“They overestimate your worth, then.”

She ignored the interruption. “Not one of them would let me step foot here if it wasn’t for Rica! Precious Rica and her precious little brat!”

“Why would they, mother?” River crossed her arms. “You're a castless drunk. I'm amazed they let you set foot in here even for her sake.” She easily dodged the woman's drunken swing.

“I deserve what she got! And more! And don’t you tell me any different!”

“You'd better hope you never get what you deserve, mother.”

“What's going on?” Rica came to her side. “I said to say hello, not upset her.”

“What would you know, whore?” The drunken dwarf staggered forwards. “Think you deserve all this because you lay on your back?”

“Mother - “

“Nothing but a pair of whores, both of you. All you're good for.”

River’s smile was brittle. “We should go, Rica.”

“That's right, run away. Ugly little whore. Worthless trash.”

“I love you too, mother.” She hugged Rica. “I'll see you soon, if we make it out of Dust Town alive. Don't let her stagger into a lava pit, will you? That’d be a real tragedy.”

_ “River.” _

_“Rica.”_ She waved goodbye to baby Endrin. “Love you, sister.”

Rica clutched at Zevran’s arm. “You'll look after her, won't you?” Her green eyes swam with tears.

“Your sister is very capable of looking after herself, my lady,” he said. “But yes, I will do my best. She is…” He trailed off. “I will do my best.”


	23. Goodbye

Leske said he wasn't with the carta any more, and River tensed. He told them about the secret entrance through her old house, and Zevran wondered if anyone else saw the light go out of her eyes.

“But we - “

“Shh, Alistair,” she said. “It's fine. We'll go check it out. Thanks, Leske.” What she really meant was goodbye.

“I don't understand,” Alistair hissed as they approached the hovel. “We were already here. How well hidden could this tunnel be?”

“There's no tunnel,” she said dully. “It's a trap.”

“Wait...how do you know? Wasn't that your friend?”

“He was, yes.” River clutched her dagger tightly. “He shouldn't have said he wasn't with the carta.”

“Why not?”

“He's not begging, or starving, or dead. That leaves carta.” She put her hand on the door. “Get ready.”

 

She swept through the carta hideout like vengeance. Since her carta days she was better armed, better armoured, better trained. Fitter and in better health. She almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

“Last chance, Leske,” she said at the end. “You're on the wrong side.”

He chose, and she killed him. Killed Jarvia, too, and looted the bodies. All in a day's work.

She was silent on the way back to the Diamond Quarter. Dwarves saw her face and recoiled, and for once she was sure it wasn't because of the brand.

But of course it wasn't over. Of course they had to venture into the Deep Roads to chase a dead woman. She thought of throwing it back in Bhelen’s face - forget the dwarven forces, right now she would face the blight on her own.

Then she thought of baby Endrin, and Rica. Thought of Dust Town, a place that would turn you into the sort of person that would turn on their oldest friend for a chance at survival. And she smiled, and agreed to the suicide mission.

She sought out Rica. Felt she needed to tell someone about Leske, someone who knew him. Her sister was sad, but not surprised. “He wasn't as strong as you.”

It wasn't until later in the quarters she had been given that she broke down. Slid to the floor, the air suddenly gone from her lungs, her cries a silent knot in her chest. Dust Town. She thought she'd escaped it but it still took, and took, and took. She cried until her eyes were hot and dry.

“River?” A cautious knock at the door. “My River? Will you let me in?”

No, she thought. Let me be alone, it's what I deserve. Ugly, useless whore.

But the knocking persisted.

Struggling to her feet, she crept to the door. “Go away, Zevran.”

After a moment the answer came. “I cannot.”

“Fine,” she said. “Sleep there.”

“Very well,” he said. “That is what I shall do.”

Impossibly, she laughed. “You're an idiot.”

“Maybe so, my warden. But I am your idiot.”

She cracked the door open. “Come in then, my idiot.”

She must look a sight. Her face felt blotched and swollen, her eyes puffy. His hands were cool against her cheeks.

“I am sorry,” he said. He knew how it was to kill a friend. His lips met hers, impossibly gentle.

“Zevran,” she whispered.

“I am here.” His arms encircled her and she broke from his kiss, turned away, still trapped in the circle of his arms.

“I can't.” Regret choked her. “I don't deserve…”

“You deserve everything.” His lips pressed behind her ear. “You deserve joy, and sunlight, and peace.” Hands slid under her tunic and brushed the skin of her belly. “You deserve friendship, and laughter, and love.” Dipping below her waistband, his hands found the crease where her hips and thighs joined. “You deserve love.” Fingers pressed into her skin and she moaned, her legs going weak.

“You can't fix everything with sex, Zevran,” she muttered.

“No? Perhaps not.” His hands drifted inwards. “But it can help you forget, surely?” Deft fingers pushed her smallclothes aside, found her wet and needy. “Do you wish to forget, my warden?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I'd like that.”

For a time, she forgot.

 

“Absolutely not,” said Alistair.

“Absolutely so.” River wasn't backing down. “This is an idiot mission and we're already risking the life of one of the last wardens in Ferelden. You need to go back to the surface and tell the others what's happening. That's if they haven't decided we're dead already and left.” Alistair still looked stricken. “Look, I have Shale and Horse. And…” She glanced at Oghren. “A hairier version of my mother.”

“That's hardly reassuring.”

“And me,” Zevran said.

“No.” She glared. “You go with Alistair.”

“How do you propose to stop me, my warden?” The elf smirked and she stomped her foot.

“Zevran!”

“Wait,” said Alistair. “I can do that, too. I'm coming with you. How are you going to stop me?”

“Go.” She stood toe-to-toe with Alistair, arms crossed.

“Oh.” He gulped. “Fair enough, then. How long should we wait?”

She considered. “Two weeks. Longer than that and we're dead.”

Oghren belched. “She's a little dark, isn't she?” He staggered back from her glare. “Three weeks. Give it three.”

“Fine, three.” River looked to Zevran. “Are you serious about this?”

“Deadly serious.” He grinned.

“Idiot.”

Alistair was still unsure. “You'll take care of her, won't you?”

“It slaughtered an entire nest of dwarven criminals, did it not?” Shale was impatient to be gone. “If we find ourselves in a tight spot, I may hide behind it.”

“We'll all take care of each other, alright Alistair?” River took his hands in hers. “And you'll take care of Leliana, and Wynne. And Sten, because he's more fragile than he looks. And Morrigan, because I know you love her.”

“Very funny.” He bent and kissed her on the cheek, and she was rendered speechless. “We'll all look after each other, then. I'll see you in two or three weeks.”

“Heartwarming.” Oghren watched him leave. “Are we doing this then, warden?”

“Let's go find your wife.” And with that, River turned her back on Orzammar.


	24. Hope Against Hope

“Will this be enough, do you think?” River turned Caridin’s crown in her hands. “I mean, it's just a thing. Can it really decide who rules a kingdom?”

“It is certainly very shiny.” Zevran had been looking as though he was mentally evaluating the crown ever since they left the Anvil. She had to admit it would fetch enough on the black market to buy up half the Diamond Quarter, in the unlikely event someone didn't kill you for it first. Best not to think about how many hungry bellies that sort of coin could feed in Dust Town; even if the food was there to buy, which it wasn't, the town would tear itself apart with that much cash floating around. Those who survived the chaos would end up just where they started.

No, the only thing for it was to put Bhelen on the throne and hope against hope he would change things for the better. And more immediately, that he'd be true to his word in honouring the dwarves’ treaty.

“We need that army,” she murmured. “Can't pay off the darkspawn with gold.” Remembering the Dead Trenches alight with torches a sick dread settled in her belly. It hardly seemed that all the armies in Thedas could keep that horde at bay. All the Grey Wardens of Ferelden had been at Ostagar along with the king's forces, and all had been slaughtered without the archdemon even making an appearance. Now she'd seen it in the flesh, she wondered more than ever what made her think she could pull this off.

She set the crown aside and pulled her knees up to her chin, watching the slow current flow beneath the bridges of Ortan Thaig. It wasn't the fierce rush of the Dane or the wide blue expanse of the Drakon, but it was undoubtedly a river, winding its slow way through the Deep Roads. It turned out it wasn't just the surface she'd lived in ignorance of her whole life but also a whole world underground.

Cadash Thaig with its weak cracks of daylight filtering down from above, its stubborn patches of greenery, had made her as fiercely homesick as a person without a home could be. She longed to see the sky again, to feel sun and rain and even snow on her skin, to be able to track the passage of hours by the changing quality of the light. She longed to breathe the free air.

Soon. For now at least they had a respite from tunnels and madness and death. And water to wash their smallclothes in, which was an equal relief.

“What are you thinking of, my Warden?” Zevran looked as comfortable as a person could be while reclining on hard stone.

“Home,” she answered, and assuming she spoke of Orzammar he pressed her hand in sympathy.

 

It was quiet in Ortan Thaig. At least it was on this second time through, without giant spiders and vengeful spirits to contend with, the only angry golem in sight the one they had brought along with them. The shuffling, darkspawn-tainted dwarf seemed thankfully to be keeping to his cave.

_Too good, too pretty for the darkness._

They were camped in a part of the Thaig that was surrounded on three sides by rock and buildings, Shale standing guard at the only entrance point. Some distance away Oghren could be heard snoring in his bedroll.

River lay with her back to him, close but not touching. There'd been a distance between them since he had argued against destroying the Anvil. No, argued was too strong a word. He'd merely tried to point out that not all suffering could be eliminated, and she'd looked at him as though he were missing the point entirely.

Too good for the darkness. She was the most idealistic realist he'd ever met. She saw the rottenness in the world, the selfishness in people's souls, and she still wanted to make things better.

If he wasn't careful, that sort of thinking might start to rub off on him.

He reached out and took hold of the braid that spilled over her shoulder, running the silky black rope between his thumb and finger. She squirmed in sleepy protest.

“You are awake?” he whispered.

“I am now.”

Shuffling closer, he lifted her head to slide one arm around her chest and the other at her waist, pulling her near and feeling her warm body nestled against his.

“Mmm, Zevran,” she said as he nuzzled at her neck. “I know we need to be ready if the darkspawn attack, but right now your dagger is digging into my leg.”

“I am not wearing a dagger.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment, embarrassed. Then he felt her wriggle, ever so softly, in his arms. An accident, perhaps? It was difficult to get comfortable sleeping in even light armour on the stone. The second time left him in no doubt; her movement was deliberate, an experimental roll of her hips against his making him groan softly into her ear.

“Are you trying to torture me, my River?” His parted lips brushed her neck and she almost bucked against him.

“I could ask you the same question.”

It was not the time or place to undress. His hand ran below her tunic and slid between her thighs, rubbing slow circles against the seam of her leggings. She retaliated, grinding harder against him until he feared he might explode.

“Slow, my Warden, slow,” he admonished, drawing his hand back and grinning at her small noise of complaint. He loosened the ties and buckles at her waist and tugged her leggings and smalls down around her thighs. Her hips rolled against him once more and he made a sound as low and soothing as he could muster while freeing his painful erection from his breeches.

The glide of his tip between her legs told him she was ready, and he angled her hips better to push inside. It was all he could do not to curse then as she gripped him tight, her breath already coming fast and shallow.

“Easy, mi amora,” he murmured. Sheathed at last, he moved a little and she cried out, high and plaintive. “Shh. Shhhhh.”

“Can't,” she whimpered, pushing back against him. Her hand fumbled for his, still draped over her chest, and pressed it over her mouth.

“Are you certain?” he whispered, remembering her panicked flight on the last occasion. She nodded, threading her fingers through his and wordlessly begging him to keep moving inside her. As he obliged her tiny sounds of pleasure vibrated against his hand.

So tight and hot around him, he feared he would come before she did but with a roll of his hips she was pushed over the edge, quivering in his arms. The clench of her around him sent him tumbling after, biting gently at her neck and making her back bow all over again.

He slid his hand away from her mouth and she breathed in as if she'd been drowning.

“Are you alright, my River?” Unconsciously his hands moved as if soothing a frightened beast, but his concerns were needless. She melted back against him, sighing.

“Perfect,” she whispered. “I'm perfect.”

He waited until her breathing fell into the slow, regular rhythm of sleep before kissing her softly on the back of the neck. “Yes you are, my love.”


	25. Surfacing

“Alistair!”

The warden spun, a joyous grin breaking over his face when he saw River waving madly. She broke into a sprint and in seconds her short arms were wrapped tightly around his waist.

“I thought you might have left,” she mumbled happily against his breastplate.

“Never!” he cried, returning the hug with crushing force. “It was so long though, I worried you were - well forget that. Maker, it's so good to see you!” Horse leaned against his leg and he scratched the dog’s back, eliciting small grunts of approval. “Who's a good dog? Who's a good boy? Oh. Hello, Zevran.”

“Alistair, my friend! I have missed you too.” The elf winked.

He was surprised how happy he actually was to see him, particularly now he could put to rest any nagging concerns that Zevran might have taken up his old role of assassin in his absence. Both of them looked pale and tired, but he didn't miss the fond look Zevran gave the dwarf.

“Shale is on the way - she's bartering over some crystals but when we left the merchant was finding her pretty persuasive.”

“Her?” 

River gave him a tired smile. “As it turns out.”

“So, what happened?” He shepherded her to a log by the fire and cast about for a bowl to fill with stew. “Is Bhelen king?”

River rubbed her eyes and shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“How did Harrowmont take it?”

A glance passed between the returned companions. “Well. He took it well.”

“Right…” He passed her the hot stew and she cradled it gratefully in her hands. “And did you find...whatshername? Branka?”

“Yes.” River looked around. “About that…”

“Aye, sure. Why not?” The slurred words came from behind them, and Alistair turned to see Wynne regarding Oghren with bemusement.

“Pardon?”

Oghren looked the mage up and down. “Oh, I'd give you a roll. Why not?”

Wynne’s expression was one that would have struck fear into the hearts of countless circle apprentices. “A ‘roll’?”

“Aye. Any time.” He belched. “Preferably in the dark.”

She looked at Alistair, who could only shrug. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“I'm not sure I have the equipment for that, but sure, whatever gets you working.” The dwarf looked for River. “Hey, warden. Which one’s my tent? Or do we share?” The commotion had drawn the rest of their company to the campfire and he leered up at Morrigan and Leliana.

“We'll find you a tent before we go,” River called. “Unless you'd like to share with Sten?”

“Which one's Sten?” He looked hopefully at the two women before noticing the stone-faced Qunari.

“No,” said Sten.

“Right, yeah, I...like to sleep alone, anyway.” Oghren stumbled back a couple of steps.

“This is Oghren,” River explained. “He's...well, he can fight.” She shrugged and returned to her stew. “We have our last army, anyway.” 

“I suppose it's back to Eamon, then.” He couldn't say he relished the idea of this landsmeet, but at least Redcliffe was a touch warmer than the Frostbacks.

“Looks that way.” There was something in River’s smile that he couldn't identify. Or at least he knew it was sadness, but not the reason for it.

There was no chance to talk to her that evening - after eating she made her apologies and took to her tent. Zevran sat up for a while, silent and thoughtful, before joining her.

The next day there was more of the old River, and Alistair was happy to see her turn her face to the first rays of sunlight with a smile of simple contentment. She took childlike pleasure in introducing Oghren to the vagaries of life on the surface. When they stopped at a tavern and he discovered surface ale, her delighted laugh turned heads and made farmers and soldiers alike smile in their direction.

Besides some darkspawn stragglers it was a peaceful journey back to Redcliffe. It was easy to lose his thoughts in the heavy tread of his boots on the road, the afternoon sun glittering on Lake Calenhad and the familiar banter between the members of their odd party. 

But at night by the campfire he would catch River watching him with that same sad, speculative look and in those moments their future weighed on him more heavily than ever.


	26. Choosing kings

River was awake when Zevran slipped soundlessly through her window, staring into the dying flames in the grate as if they held some answer to the questions that plagued her. She raised her face to his kiss, leaning in against him.

“You are troubled.”

She closed her eyes as his long fingers worked through her unbound hair. “I'm worried about the landsmeet.”

Zevran worked at the tense muscles in her neck. “The nobles will see the threat that the blight poses.”

“But will they see the threat that Loghain poses?”

“You will persuade them.” His breath tickled her ear. “You are very persuasive.”

“It's not just that.” Covering one of his hands with her own, she twisted to look at him. “What if we defeat him? What then?”

Zevran crouched to meet her eyes. “This Arl Eamon seems determined for Alistair to be on the throne, yes?”

“Yes.” She felt disloyal, putting her thoughts into words. “But what if he's not the right choice? He doesn't even want to be king.”

“It has been my experience,” he said, tracing her jaw with the back of his fingers, “that men who wish to become king make some of the very worst kings.”

Rather than reassurance she felt a knot settle in her stomach. “Like Bhelen.”

“You doubt yourself.”

“Don't you?”

He smiled. “Doubt you? Never.”

“But what we did...what he did…” She couldn't forget the triumphant gleam in Bhelen’s eyes when he ordered his rival's execution. “Was he the right choice? Will things change for the better?”

“Can it be worse?” He took her hands in his, tracing soft circles with his thumbs. “Alistair is no Bhelen. And he is no Harrowmont. Besides, he has the counsel of the wisest, bravest woman I know.”

She shook her head. “You can't mean me.”

“Ah, no. Truly, I spoke of Morrigan.” His golden eyes glittered with mischief and she couldn't help laughing. “You, my warden. You see things as they are, and you wish them to be better. When Alistair is king, he will be lucky to have you on his side.”

“But what if we don't surv- “

He stopped her words with a hard kiss, wrapping her hair in his fingers to draw her closer as his tongue passed her lips. She tried to focus for a moment on her worries but when he pulled her from the chair and her arms wrapped around his neck, she found all she could think about was the heat of his body and his hand firm on the small of her back as her mouth slid over his.

Finally he pulled away, breathless. “Let me see you,” he murmured, his voice gone rough with desire.

“You mean…” Her hands fluttered to the thin fabric covering her body.

“Please.” Zevran helped her to her feet before sitting back on his hands. His pupils were wide with arousal, his breath shallow. She hesitated only a moment before drawing the shift up and over her head, standing bare and self-conscious before him.

As his eyes raked over her she thought of the slender, long legged bodies of the elven women. Surely her hips were too wide, her belly too rounded, her limbs too short compared to theirs. She bent to retrieve her shift but he caught her arm and pressed his lips to the soft inside of her wrist.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You are the last person alive who should doubt herself.” His fingers traced soft paths over her skin, lingering on her curves with frank appreciation. He knelt up and captured both her hands in his, renewing their earlier kiss before working his way down her body and pressing his lips to the soft warmth between her thighs.

“Zevran…” she whimpered.

“Shh, my River. Let me do this for you.” He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder and bent to his task, and all her fears and doubts were forgotten under the practiced caress of his tongue.

Still, she bit back the words _I love you_ as he brought her body undone.


	27. Assassins and Jewels

“This is easily the worst river I’ve seen.”

The Drakon River in this section of the city flowed brown and sluggish out towards the docks. Between the Market district and the poorer parts of Denerim it was ripe with the smell of sewage and its banks were strewn with the city’s refuse.

“You should see it after a plague in the Alienage.” Alistair screwed his nose up at the memory.

“Why?” River looked up, bright and curious, and he shook his head.

“You don’t want to know, trust me.”

Cut off from the sea breeze by the press of hovels around them, the smell just grew worse. “Careful,” Alistair said as Morrigan dodged the contents of a chamber pot splashed on the cobblestones.

“And they call the Chasind barbarians.” She covered her mouth as they passed the fly-blown corpse of an alley cat.

“You should try walking here in the mornings,” Alistair grumbled.

“Why?” River asked.

“That’s when they empty the chamber pots.”

“Ugh.”

“Why do we waste our time in this cesspool?” Sten growled. “I see no darkspawn.”

“It smells nearly as bad.” River was practiced at ignoring the Qunari’s complaints. “We’re looking for information to use against Loghain. Arl Eamon’s orders.”

“And is Arl Eamon now the leader of the Wardens?”

“No, Alistair and I are, and we can’t move forward while he’s in our way. So here we are.”

“Where is that, exactly?”

They stepped into an open square. “Here. Through there we should reach the Pearl - people there will have heard rumours.”

“The last time we ran into people who knew Loghain at the Pearl, they tried to kill us.”

“Don’t you start, Alistair - shit.” She halted and he nearly ran into her back. “Everyone stop.”

Morrigan glared around them. “What, more human waste?”

“No, traps.” Alistair couldn’t see them until she pointed them out, savage-looking leghold traps almost concealed in the dirt and dead leaves.

“And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last.” Alistair was certain the man at the top of the stairs wasn’t referring to him, even if his predatory eyes hadn’t been narrowed on River. “The Crows send their greetings, once again.” He was clad in leather armour bound with an elaborate pattern of straps and armed with twin daggers. The accent was difficult to place - not Ferelden or Orlesian, but definitely not Antivan.

“And where’s Zevran?” Shifty brown eyes raked over the rest of their little party and dismissed each of them in turn. “I don’t see him with you. How very disappointing.”

River’s voice didn’t waver. “You mean the other Crow? We killed him.”

The assassin had an unpleasant laugh. “Don’t bother. I know very well he travels with you.”

A voice from behind him made Alistair jump. “Here I am, Taliesin.” Had he been trailing them all the way from Eamon’s estate? Damned sneaky assassin! In front of him, he saw River’s shoulders tense.  “Tell me, were you sent?” Zevran called. “Or did you volunteer for the job?”

“Oh-ho! And he makes an appearance!” the man crowed. “I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself!”

“Is that so? Well here I am, in the flesh.” Zevran’s measured tone gave away little of his thoughts. Alistair saw River torn between looking at him and keeping her eyes on his fellow assassin.

“You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you.” She did turn then, and his heart broke at the fear in her wide brown eyes. He’d seen her charge at ogres with more confidence. “It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

Her voice lacked the certainty of a moment ago. “Of course, I’d need to be dead first.”

Zevran didn’t hesitate. “And I’m not about to let that happen.”

“What?” Taliesin’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’ve gone soft!”

“I’m sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no.” Zevran glanced at River, who looked at him like he might be something from a dream. “I’m not coming back. And you should have stayed in Antiva.”

It happened fast after that, more assassins melting from the shadows and a pitched battle erupting on the stairway. It wasn’t until the Crows’ blood stained the cobblestones and Zevran’s arms were locked tight around River that the realisation came to him - it wasn’t Taliesin she’d been afraid of fighting.

 

“And there it is. Taliesin is dead, and I am free of the Crows. They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesin.” Zevran’s expression was uncharacteristically sad. “So as long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

“So what does this mean?” River asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“I do not know. It means I have options now, whereas once I had none.”

This was it, then - he didn’t need her any longer. It hurt more than she’d even expected but she wouldn’t let it show. He’d just killed his oldest friend for her, she had no right to ask him for more.

“I suppose it would be possible for me to leave now,,” he continued. “If I wished, I could go far away, somewhere the Crows would never find me.”

If he wished…? She bit the inside of her lip, hard.

“I think however, that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?”

Was this how a Desire demon appeared to its victims? Wearing the face of a loved one and offering improbable hope. Saving the world certainly sounded unlike him. She stared hard at the ground, fighting the urge to beg him, to hold onto him and keep him from slipping away.

“I would be glad to have you stay,” she said, and when she looked up he was still there.

 

It was hours before they limped back to Eamon’s Denerim estate. “Well, the Pearl was a waste of time.” Alistair did a double take. “They’ve changed the dining room!”

“It wasn’t a total waste.” River grinned and practiced a flashy move with her daggers. “I learned some things.”

“Lucky you.” Zevran flopped into an upholstered chair. “Isabela made me pay much more for that information.”

“If you mean what I think you mean, I doubt you complained.” Alistair’s stomach growled and he craned his neck in the direction of the kitchen. “I wonder if they still make those little bread rolls...I’ll see you both later.”

“Our warden friend is becoming more astute,” Zevran observed.

“What do you mean?” She was likely hungry too if he knew anything of Warden appetites, but she took the chair next to his, perched on the edge with her legs dangling.

Her little fingers closed around his and he saw sorrow and concern on her open face. River knew Taliesin had been a friend to him, and more. He took a deep breath before fishing something out of his belt.

“Here...it seems an appropriate moment to give you this.”

She frowned at his outstretched hand. “You don’t need to give me anything.”

“I may not need to, but I want to.” He held the shiny object up to the light. “I acquired it on my very first job for the Crows. A Rivaini merchant prince, and he was wearing a single, jeweled earring when I killed him. In fact, that’s about all he was wearing.” The rest, she could guess. “I thought it was beautiful and took it to mark the occasion. I’ve kept it since...and I’d like you to have it.”

Because you are the only person in the world important to me now, he wanted to say. Because you are beautiful and I want to keep you. When she hesitated, the wrong words came out.

“Don’t get the wrong idea about it. You killed Taliesin. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I’m free, at least for now. Feel free to sell it, or wear it...or whatever you like.” Her face was closed to him as he dropped the bauble in her palm. “It’s really the least I could give you in return.”

“In return?” Now she looked at it like a bug that had crawled into her hand and he cursed himself.

“I...look, just...just take it. It’s meant a lot to me, but so have…” _Coward._ “So has what you’ve done. Please, take it.”

“Thank you.” Her forced smile was a blade to his heart. “It’s very pretty.” She slipped it into a pocket and jumped down from her chair. “I’m going to the kitchens, do you want to come?”

“I believe I will clean up a little first.” He watched her leave before burying his head in his hands. _Braska,_ he was a fool.


	28. Escape

_It’s really the least I could give you in return._

She tried to remind herself that it had meant a lot to him. The earring _was_ pretty. Valuable, too, she’d handled enough stolen goods for the Carta to know a quality piece when she saw it.

Now he'd given it to her, and he'd never said or done anything that made her feel so cheap.

“Excuse me,” she said to an elven servant and the girl nearly dropped her cleaning rag in shock. “Could you tell me where the Arl’s rooms are, please? He's asked to see me.”

“Of course, ma'am. Ser. Warden. End of the corridor and to the right. Ser. Ma'am.”

“Thank you.” She gave the elf what she hoped was a reassuring smile and continued to the end of the hall, shoving Zevran’s earring deep into a pocket as she went.

 

“There's been a complication.”

Queen or no, Zevran swore that if he should find out that Anora had a hand in the Wardens’ capture he would kill the woman himself.

For her sake, River had risked everything in infiltrating Howe’s estate. For her sake, she had led them into the dungeons and fought the man and his forces to the death. And for her sake, she had screamed to him to escape, even as Cauthrien’s soldiers swarmed over the two Wardens like ants.

If she was...if she didn't...he could not think it. Suffice it to say, if he did not see her again then Loghain would beg for death before his work was done.

 _Fort Drakon._ No sooner did he hear the words than he slipped silently out of the room.

 

He had no plan, only his weapons and armour and a burning rage that kept panic from swallowing him whole. The streets were all but empty in the growing dusk and those few people he encountered saw something in his face that made them give way before him. Still, it took the best part of an hour before he reached the gates of the massive stone fortress.

There he paused. This was not a city estate, but a proper military building. The heavy oak doors would be the only means of entry, and he could hardly sneak through them.

The first indication he had of Horse’s presence was a soft huff of breath, then the dog’s muscled bulk leaned against his leg.

“ _Braska!_ What are you doing here, stupid animal?”

Horse whined softly.

“Ah, yes. I know.” He scratched behind the mabari’s velvety ear. “But it is not safe for you here.”

The dog growled menacingly and he sighed.

“It is true, you are a war dog. Come, then. You do the talking.”

 

With Horse’s help it was easier than expected to trick their way past the bulk of the soldiers. At last they reached the prison and quickly dispatched the men that rushed at them, more suited to guard duty than combat. Zevran rifled through their pockets until he found a ring of heavy keys.

Fort Drakon's cells were adjacent to its torture chamber, the air heavy with the stench of blood and sweat. Down the stairs broken bodies lay discarded where they died. He would look for them alive before he searched there.

Mercifully, the first cage unlocked to reveal the Wardens. Zevran stopped dead in the doorway, his darkest fears for a moment come to life.

They had been stripped of armour and tunics down to their smallclothes, their skin scraped and mottled with bruises and cuts. Alistair’s face was a mixture of relief and despair. But Zevran had only eyes for River’s limp body, cradled in his arms.

“She said you'd come.” Zevran knelt to touch River’s pallid face. He choked back a sob of relief when he saw her chest rising and falling, her breath shallow but real. Not dead, but her hair was caked with blood and an ugly bruise marred her temple.

“They hit her too hard, the bastards.” Reluctantly, Alistair released her into the elf’s arms. “She's been drifting in and out. Makes less sense every time. Carrying on about earrings and how she's not a whore.”

Zevran looked away from the accusation in the other man's eyes. “Did they…?”

He didn't have to explain further. Alistair shook his head, his face dark with anger. “I'm sure it was just a matter of time. The sounds coming from down there…” His face was ashen. “And then they stopped.”

“There is a chest,” Zevran remembered. “It may have your belongings. Did you have any health poultices?”

“I'll check.” Alistair moved as fast as his injuries would allow, leaving the elf and the dwarf alone in the cell.

“You came.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I said you..." Her words were lost in a fit of coughing that made her wince in pain. "Zev, I lost your earring. I'm sorry.”

“No matter.” He held her gingerly, afraid of causing further pain although he wanted nothing more than to crush her to his chest and never let go. “You are alive. Nothing else matters.”

Alistair returned with an armful of clothing and weapons. “I have health poultices, but she'll need healing. We have to get her to Wynne.”

Zevran rifled through her things while they waited for the poultice to take effect. “Here.” He found another and offered it to Alistair, but the man shook his head.

“She might need more.”

“There are enough for you both.” When he refused again, Zevran’s tone grew sharp. “We're not free yet. We must make our way back to the estate, and there will be fighting. Would you see her captured again because you are too chivalrous to be of use?”

Flushing red with shame and anger, the Warden took the offered poultice. “What's that?”

Zevran followed his gaze to something shining gold on the dirty cell floor. His earring.

“Look, River.” Her eyes flickered open for just a moment and she smiled.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I don't mind if you don't love me back.” Her eyes drifted shut. “I don't mind.”

 _“Mi amora.”_ There was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Alistair watched him resentfully and he realised that here was a man who would love her without reservation, given the chance. Without fear.

 _Let her go._ But it was impossible. She was a part of him now.

 

Hours later he watched River sleeping, her breath finally regular and untroubled. He'd refused to leave her side even to eat, had insisted on being the one to bathe and dress her, and Wynne had conceded without much more than a halfhearted show of disapproval. 

She stirred now, warm and clean and soft beside him. If she remembered her words earlier, she'd given no indication.

“You saved us.” Her little hand sought his and he pressed it to his lips.

“You have saved me many times, my warden.” More times than she knew.

She burrowed closer, pressing her lips to his neck.

“You should rest,” he chided.

“I don't want to rest.” Her hand slid up his thigh and she grinned wickedly. “Nor do you.”

“Minx.” She was healed, but still weak. “I don't want to break you.”

“Shh.” Insistent fingers tugged at his shirt and he helped her pull it over his head. “I was broken long before I met you.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Hooking one of her legs over his hip he pushed into her sweet warmth, and her happy sigh broke him all over again.

This was what he had been afraid of, since Rinna. Love. If she hadn't survived today it could have destroyed him.

Now, with her arms warm around his neck and her face buried in his chest, he couldn't imagine living without it.


	29. Landsmeet

A silence fell over the landsmeet as Loghain and River circled each other warily, their weapons drawn. Alistair saw the dwarf’s jaw set with grim determination, her hands loose on the handles of her daggers even as his own clutched his sword pommel hard enough to deaden his fingers.

It wasn't right - he should have been the one dueling the regent. It was he who they fought to put on the throne after all, and he was a better match against Loghain - how could she hope to win, clad in leathers against his metal plate and without the warrior's superior strength and reach? She looked so fierce, but so small. She was so small.

A murmur went up as Loghain gave a mighty yell, advancing on the Warden with a great sweep of his longsword. River dodged easily, ducking under his arm and parrying the next weaker swing. She whirled, and the nobles gasped to realise she had drawn first blood, the point of her dagger sliding beneath the overlapping plates at Loghain's shoulder.

Glancing at Zevran, Alistair saw him watching the fight with steely-eyed concentration. River had won the Proving, Alistair tried to remember. The best of the warrior caste had fallen beneath her blade, and since then he'd seen her take down scores of men in battle. Then Loghain's shield slammed hard into her side and she went sliding along the flagstones.

Sounds of dismay echoed around the hall. Loghain moved with the lithe confidence of a predator, advancing on the downed Warden with his sword raised.

If only he knew how she hated to be knocked down. Alistair had seen it first in the Tower of Ishal when an ogre had sent her flying with a swipe of its massive fist. She'd lain stunned for just a moment, then launched herself at the beast in a rage, springing onto its chest and felling it in three savage blows.

Even if Loghain could see the burning fury in her eyes he had no idea what he was in for. Alistair almost felt sorry for the man.

No flashy war cries for River. When she sprang to her feet she was silent, all her energy channelled into deadly movement. Loghain had not even time to blink in surprise as his sword cut only air, then a flurry of blows pierced the vulnerable joints of his armour, a final cut to the back of his leg sending him crashing down on one knee. He was of a height with River now, one of her daggers angling up beneath his helmet ready to pierce his throat.

“Enough,” the warrior grunted. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. “I yield.”

Her eyes met Zevran’s, a shared smile of triumph and relief exchanged between the two of them. Then she found Alistair and nodded, and he knew what he had to do.

 

“He'll be good. He will.” Alistair already carried himself differently since the landsmeet ended, less the reluctant bastard upstart and more the rightful king.

“Do you wish to convince me, my warden, or yourself?” Zevran pulled her close and she rested against his chest.

“Both of us, I suppose.” She sighed. “I mean...neither. He will be. He's a good person.”

“As are you.” Zevran pulled away and looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I did not thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“It occurs to me now that you have freed me from the Crows, and yet I did not think to thank you for it. No matter why you did it, still it was done, and I the benefactor. So...thank you.”

Had she really said she loved him? Everything was hazy from those dreadful hours in Fort Drakon, she couldn't tell what was real and what was imagined. And if she had, would he chalk it up to her confusion and relief at being rescued? It hung between them, unacknowledged. Certainly not reciprocated. Thanks wasn't what she wanted and she didn't know what to do with it. “There's no need.”

“No,” he said decisively. “There is a need. I am simply not accustomed to the customs that come with our...arrangement.”

“Is that what it is? An arrangement?”

Zevran shrugged. “In the Crows we do not have friends, and yet here you are and I cannot help but consider you such.”

“Oh.” Unconsciously, she fingered the earring in her pocket. “Well I'm happy you think of me as a friend.” She hoped her smile looked more natural than it felt. “I'm going to go to bed, I think. We leave early for Redcliffe.”  _ Please go with me,  _ she begged silently, but all he offered was a smile and a stiff bow.

“As you wish, my Warden. I will see you in the morning.”

He was distancing himself again, and she was too weak and stupid to stop him.

 

She was strong, Zevran reasoned. She didn't need him, would move on more easily once he was gone if he didn't drag out their attachment now. Besides, she had troubles of her own and he'd dragged her into enough of his.

She would realise, when this was all over, she'd be better off without him.

_ I'm sorry, mi amora. _

He retired to his single bed and a sleepless night, missing her warm body curled next to his.


	30. Entanglements

The road from Denerim to Redcliffe left the Drakon River for a time before converging again, the merry waters keeping them company on the descent into Lothering.

“Maker, what a mess.” Alistair took in the charred remains of the mill, ravaged corpses hanging from its blackened beams. “I hope most of them made it out before the horde came.”

They might have. But thinking of the ragtag bunch of refugees they had seen camped around the village outskirts, River had to wonder if they'd gotten far enough, fast enough.

“They'll rebuild,” she reassured him. “Once the blight is over.”

Two walls of the ruined Chantry provided shelter for them to camp, and after setting up her tent Leliana walked the grounds, sifting through piles of broken statuary and weather-soiled parchments.

“I'm sorry.” River crouched next to her. “You were happy here, weren't you?”

“I was.” The bard picked up what had been part of the gold-threaded altar cloth. “I wonder how many escaped? Where they are now?”

“They had the Templars to protect them. If they left early enough…”

“I wish I knew.” She looked around at the rubble, the scorch marks and filth that stained the remaining walls. “I feel certain the Maker would not let the Revered Mother come to harm. But we have seen such terrible things.”

“Bodhan might have heard some rumours. I could ask?” River moved to stand, but Leliana rested a hand on her arm. “In a moment. Let us talk of happier things.”

“If you like.” She settled onto the remains of a pew. “What should we talk about?”

“He's quite a character, your Zevran, isn't he?”

The fears that River had been doing her best to ignore since Denerim came bubbling to the surface. “I'm...not so sure he's my Zevran.”

The other woman frowned. “He owes you his life. That debt alone makes him beholden to you. And that's saying nothing of your...um...entanglements.”

Beholden? She fought a sudden wave of nausea. Was that it, then? All the flirtation, the interest in her life, the intimacy...all payment for a debt? And the earring, she had almost convinced herself it meant something. Maker, she was such an idiot.

“He's not my elven slave or anything.” That would make her no better than the men who had used her in the past. It wasn't true…it couldn't be true.

Leliana was speaking, but River couldn't process the words. She stood fast enough to send the broken pew tumbling over.

“I have to go.”

“River? Is it something I said?”

“I have to go,” she repeated, and stumbled off into the growing darkness.

Leliana had told her of parts of Orlais so ravaged by past blights that nothing grew there even centuries later, once fertile lands turned to bleak desert. Even brief contact with the darkspawn corruption had turned Lothering’s ripe fields into plains of barren dirt - Maker knew how long it would be before crops grew again in this area. Ferelden would need a strong leader in the hard times ahead. Once more River found herself doubting her own decisions. Would the power-hungry Anora have made a better ruler after all? Should she have pushed Alistair into marrying her, even though he was clearly opposed to the idea?

No. Nobody should be forced to be with someone they didn't truly want. Not even for a kingdom, and certainly not from some misguided sense of honour.

A sob rose in her throat and she quickly choked it back.

She had wandered some way from camp when she heard Horse begin to bark and howl.

Shapes detached from the shadows. Not darkspawn, she would have sensed them. Something larger, rounder, with more legs…

Spiders. Far too many to take on alone but she wasn't likely to outrun them. The first struck as she pulled out her daggers and she ducked beneath its grasping fangs, sinking rune-enchanted steel into the soft underside of its abdomen. Lymph sprayed in her wake as she twisted away and free of the giant beast before it fell, rolling onto its back with legs twitching convulsively in the air.

There was just time to dodge a spray of venom from her left before another attacked, a sweep of her daggers severing two of its legs and sending its front half crashing uselessly to the ground. Then she heard a soft whooshing sound and suddenly found herself encased in silk threads.

River struggled to break free even as she braced herself for the end. She saw a spider poised to strike, then heard it scream as an arrow pierced one of its clustered eyes, swiftly followed by another. Horse rushed in silently, powerful jaws clamping down and crushing its thorax.

Finally she had freed an arm enough to cut loose the remaining strands, and just in time she managed to avoid the striking fangs of another spider. An arrow skittered uselessly across its carapace and it wheeled to seek out the new threat, giving her time to open a long gash in its side. Then a savage sweep of her daggers severed thorax from abdomen and it fell in two parts, stone dead.

How many left? It was too dark. She heard tearing, crunching noises she hoped were Horse prevailing against another of the beasts. Then she screamed as she was knocked to the ground.

The spider loomed over her, clawed legs pinning her down as it poised to strike. Unable to fight, she closed her eyes and waited for the end.

The pain never came. Instead she felt the weight leave her, heard the spider hiss and squeal. When her eyes opened, Zevran was clinging grimly to its back, ichor spraying from its ruined eyes. He jumped free just before the death throes hit, narrowly avoiding being crushed by its heavy carapace.

That was the last of them, she realised. It was over, and they were alive. Horse grinned at her from on top of another corpse, his coat streaked with gore and his tongue lolling wildly. She heard the shouts of her approaching companions, then a warm hand closed over her wrist and Zevran’s golden eyes looked into hers.

“Are you well, my warden?”

“Thanks to you.” She let him help her to her feet. “You saved my life.”

“As you have saved mine.” He glanced away, discomforted.

“Are we even now, then?” It was half meant as a joke, but it came out a plea, and he was just as serious when he answered.

“I am not sure we shall ever be that.”

“What happened?” Leliana’s voice was followed by a flare of light, Morrigan’s magic illuminating the scene. “Is everyone alright?”

“Maker's breath!” Alistair’s eyes widened as he took in the giant corpses. “Are you hurt? What were you doing, wandering off alone like that?”

“I'm fine.” It was largely true - some scrapes and bruises, nothing a simple poultice wouldn't fix. “Where's Horse?” The mabari appeared at her side, leaning hard enough to throw her off balance. “You stink, boy.” But he was unhurt.

“You could all use a wash,” Wynne remarked, and Horse whined piteously.

“Go with the lady,” River told him. “We'll clean off in the river.”

Alistair gripped his sword. “I'm coming with you. Who knows what else is lurking around here?” 

“I, too.” They all looked at Morrigan in surprise and she bristled. “Tis cold. I will cast  a fire rune in the water. A frozen leader is of no use to anyone.”

“That's a wonderful idea,” River interrupted before Alistair could antagonise her into withdrawing the offer. “Thank you, Morrigan.”

“I - “ She blinked. “Do not thank me, ‘tis merely a practicality.”

Kindness or practicality, the warm water was welcome, as was being rid of the filth caking her skin and armour. They walked back to camp in companionable silence, or at least tolerant silence when it came to Morrigan and Alistair.

“Zevran.” River paused just outside the light of the campfire.

“Your wish?”

“I wondered…” Suddenly she felt as shy as if all their history had never existed. “I wondered if you wanted to stay in my tent tonight?”

“No, I...no.” He stepped back, crossing his arms. “I mean no offense, I simply...no.”

“Is something wrong?” As much as the truth might hurt her, suddenly she needed to hear it.

“I do not wish to talk about it.” His face may as well have been carved from stone. Leave it, she thought, but desperation got the better of her.

“Are you sure? We might not get another chance…”

“Enough!” he snapped. “I said I am not interested. Can you not understand that? There are other things you can focus on besides me, I am certain! Do...do those.” He stalked off and she stood alone, something inside her dying.


	31. An Understanding

When the Warden was sad, it could be hard to tell. It seemed to Morrigan that the more determinedly cheerful she got the more it meant she was hurting inside. Which made today particularly concerning.

As they travelled the wide road to Redcliffe, sadness rolled off her in waves. She seemed curled in on herself, like a leaf without sunshine, and it did not bode well for what Morrigan must convince her to do.

Was it fair she wondered, not for the first time, to drag River into this? Would it be such a terrible idea to take her plan straight to Alistair? Lately he had shown a pragmatic streak, and what he would not do for his own survival he would surely face for River’s sake. Besides it was he, after all, who must do the deed. Despite herself, the thought of that made hidden parts of Morrigan’s body writhe in anticipation.

Stop! This was not about enjoyment. Nor did fairness enter the equation. The dwarf held Alistair’s trust in a way Morrigan never would. She was necessary.

“What's wrong with her?” Alistair suddenly appeared at her side and the witch blushed. Actually blushed! How Flemeth would laugh to see that! “Is it the spiders? Has she been poisoned?”

“I suspect the wound comes from somewhere...closer by.” And would eat away at her as surely as any poison if left to fester.

Alistair followed her line of sight to Zevran, and she saw his face darken. “I'll kill him,” he growled.

Morrigan was not certain she wouldn't like to see that. The elf walked along blithely flirting with Wynne, seemingly oblivious to the damage he'd wrought. Ice would do the trick, or fire, or tormenting him with nightmarish visions until he went entirely mad…

But first the blight must be defeated, and before that could happen she must ensure everything went to plan. With more than a small pang of guilt, she steered the conversation back to her own ends.

“Be her friend, Alistair. ‘Tis what she needs now more than your vengeance. Guard her back and do what you must to keep her alive.”

“That's…” He looked at her in surprise. “I will.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Thank you, Morrigan.”

She swallowed hard. “‘Tis nothing. She is my friend as well, and our best hope to survive this blight. Now go,” and she made a shooing motion, “see if you cannot cheer her up somewhat.”

Morrigan watched him catch up to River, saw her return his easy smile with a shadow of her own, and felt something uncomfortably close to longing.

 

River loitered in the castle corridor. Perhaps Alistair wouldn't be in his room. It had been a long and eventful day, perhaps he'd be asleep already. But no, he was not only in, his door was open and he saw her before she could even think of slinking away.

“River!” He beamed and waved her in. “You couldn't sleep either, huh?”

“Alistair…” She took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

 

“So Morrigan’s really in there? It's really, really not a joke?”

They had stopped outside River’s room, Alistair understandably reluctant to take the next step and go inside.

“I'm sorry,” she said for what felt like the millionth time. “You know if I could do it instead…”

He grinned sheepishly. “I doubt it would have the same effect, somehow.”

“You don't have to,” she said in a rush. “Maybe we won't die. Maybe they got it wrong. It's a really long time since the last blight, isn't it? There could be a mistake. I know you don't like her.”

“River.” Alistair put his hands on her shoulders, crouching so their eyes were level. “It's fine, I promise. She's not so bad really. I mean she is, she's awful, and terrifying, and...OK, this isn't helping. But to have gone through all this just to lose you...I just can't see the world as worth saving, if you're not in it.”

A lump formed in her throat and she struggled to speak. “You know I might die anyway? Any of us might.”

“Not you. You're unstoppable.”

“You're my best friend, Alistair.” River laid a small hand on his rough cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He closed the distance between them to place a lingering kiss on her lips, then straightened, embarrassed. “Right, time to face the beast, then.”

 

Alistair couldn't have said how much later it was when he made his way back to his room, flushed and more than a little dazed.

Growing up in the Chantry he'd been led to believe that lightning would strike those who indulged in intimacy outside the bonds of marriage. What then did the Maker have in store for ex-Templar initiates who took part in arcane sex rituals? It must involve at least a disfiguring rash, or the loss of body parts.

 _Worth it,_ a small part of him whispered, and for a moment he was back in the darkness, soft skin pressed against his sweat-slicked chest, warm lips on his neck...

Rounding the corner he came face to face with Zevran, and the treacherous thoughts vanished.

 _“You.”_ The elf backed into the wall as Alistair advanced on him. “What are you doing?”

“And a very good evening to you too, Alistair.” Zevran laughed nervously. “I was in fact trying to locate my room. I confess this castle has me all turned around.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Please do enlighten me, my dear Warden.” His eyes widened in alarm as Alistair pinned him to the wall, a large arm pressed against his throat.

Alistair was aware of the danger. He was more than a match for the elf when it came to brute strength, but he wouldn't fool himself that Zevran wasn't carrying more weapons about his person than he had teeth in his head. And yet, he couldn't seem to care.

“This is - _not_ \- a game. She's carrying all of us, you know that. She's the bravest of us all, the best of us all, and _you_ \- “ his voice dropped to a hiss - “you push her away like she's _nothing.”_

“You do not understand - “

“What I understand,” he growled, “is that she deserves better.”

Zevran’s eyes darkened with an old pain. “Then I will gladly step aside.”

“She wants _you,_ you Antivan idiot!” His jaw clenched with the effort of not picking the man up by the ankles and shaking sense into him. “And the worst part isn't that you don't deserve her, it's that you could if you tried.”

“It is for the best,” Zevran argued. “It is better for her that we part.”

“Why?”

He winced. “I have my reasons.”

“ _Fuck_ your reasons,” Alistair snarled, and the elf's eyes widened in alarm. “Let me explain something to you. If the reason you can't be with her is that you don't love her - which by the way, I highly doubt - then you will go to her right now and explain yourself in the gentlest possible way. You will make it absolutely clear that the fault lies with you, and you alone. And then you will leave, forever.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“But if what I think is true, if there's an ounce of sense in that elven head of yours and you actually _do_ love her…” he leaned in menacingly close. “Then that's what you'll tell her. And if you hurt her again, however good you think your _reasons_ are, I'll twist that pretty head right off your shoulders.” When he finally released him, Zevran slumped against the wall. “Do we understand each other?”

“You wish me to embark on a relationship with our dear leader out of the fear of physical punishment?” The assassin rubbed his neck resentfully.

“I'll pretend you didn't say that.” Alistair glared at him. “You'll do it because it's the right thing to do, and because she loves you. And that makes you the luckiest man alive. Now go,” he growled. “Prove you're worth it.”

Zevran drew himself up to full height, still much smaller than the Warden.

“I should thank you, I suppose.”

“You will.” Alistair shook his head. “Her room is that way.”

He didn't stay to see where the elf went - it was up to Zevran now.


	32. Amora

“River?”

She raised her tousled head from the pillow, and there was something childlike about her in her borrowed nightshirt, wisps of hair escaping from her braids. She sat up and stared at Zevran dully, and guilt twisted his stomach when he saw her eyes were rimmed with red.

Closing the door softly behind him, he padded over to the edge of the bed. “I hoped we might talk.”

“Do you want your earring back?” River’s voice was dull, carefully devoid of emotion. “Is that it?”

“No, I - I gave it to you. I want you to have it.” Zevran reached for her and she shrank back as if struck. “My Warden...you do not suppose that I would hurt you, surely?”

There was such sorrow in her brown eyes, he began to wish Alistair had choked him back in the hall. It was no less than he deserved. “Zevran.” Her brows knit in a small frown. “You think you need a weapon to hurt me? Or a fist?”

“It was never my intention to cause you pain,” he said lamely.

“You don't even need intentions. You just do it.” She drew her chin up, defying him as much as the tears that gathered in her eyes. “When you give me everything, and take it away. When you try to pay me with trinkets.”

“It was a gift,” he protested.

“Then call it a gift!” she cried. “Don't say it's the least you can offer me in return, like I'm some kind of...”

_ Whore.  _ The word hung heavy in the air between them.

“I wouldn't…” He'd gone to such lengths to convince her it meant nothing, now it was painfully obvious how it must have come across. He remembered her shame when she told him of her past and he wondered how many of those men had left her with some token, some coin or bauble to assuage their guilt?

Zevran sank to his knees by the bedside.

“Please let me explain.” Words had never failed him in the past but suddenly his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “An assassin must learn to forget about sentiment - it is dangerous. You take your pleasures where you can when life is good. To expect anything more would be reckless.” He dared a glance at River. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her expression unreadable. “I thought it was the same between us. Something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet…”

“I don't care.”

If there was any response he had expected, that was not it. “I…” Now he was truly lost for words.

“I understand why you can't love me, Zevran. And I'm sorry for what you've been through, truly I am. But understanding doesn't make it hurt less.” She drew her knees to her chest, an unconscious barrier between them. “I can't take it any more, being everything to you and then nothing. I can't keep getting my hopes up.” A tiny sob escaped her throat. “If you're going to push me away again just do it. Just go.”

She couldn't have made it easier for him to walk away.

_ The worst part isn't that you don't deserve her. It's that you could if you tried. _

_ “Mi amora, _ I have no wish to push you away again.” He raised himself from the floor to sit by her on the bed, deliberately not touching. “Not ever.”

River was silent for a long time, understandably wary. When she finally spoke her voice trembled.

“What are you saying, Zevran? What, you...love me?”

“I don't know...how would you know such a thing?” He felt giddy with the enormity of it. “I grew up amongst those who sold the Illusion of love, and then I was taught to make my heart cold in favour of the kill. Everything I have been taught says what I feel is wrong.” He reached and took her hand in his, and this time she didn't pull away. “Yet I cannot help it. Since you asked me into your tent I have been nothing but confused. Do you understand me at all?”

Tears ran freely down her face. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I’m no wiser than you when it comes to these things, Zevran.”

He gathered her into his arms and her head tucked into the crook of his neck. “All I need to know is if there might be some future for us, some possibility of...I do not know what.” This, he thought. A lifetime of this, her skin warm against his, her dark hair tickling his lips.

“If you mean it…”

“I swear it, my Warden.”

“Then I'd like that future. Whatever it brings.”

Something loosened in his chest, fears he had barely allowed himself to acknowledge being replaced by an overwhelming tenderness for the tiny woman nestled in his arms. “Then say no more - that is all I need to know. I am sorry for acting so strangely.” His lips brushed her temple and he delighted in the way it made her shiver. “I think I will be better now. Much better.”

“Zevran…” Blindly her lips sought his, her arms reaching up to wrap around his neck as she kissed him, and a happy groan escaped his lips as he returned the kiss with increasing fervour.

“I have missed you, my Warden.” The nightgown had fallen to expose her shoulder and he pressed his lips against the bare skin. 

“I know this isn't my tent,” she murmured, “but if you'd like to join me…”

“I can think of nothing I want more.”

Solemnly she helped him out of his armour, each part laid neatly beside the foot of the bed. Trembling fingers traced the dark lines of his tattoos. “You are so pretty,” she breathed. Soft lips brushed the planes of his chest, making his stomach flutter.

“And you are beautiful.” Slowly, carefully, he raised the gown to expose her thighs, the enticing curve of her hips, the perfect roundness of her breasts. “So beautiful.”

“Lie down,” she whispered. Climbing on top of him she lowered herself carefully, the expression of bliss on her face mirroring his own when he was finally seated inside her.

“I love you,” he blurted as her hips began to rock against him, and a smile lit up her face.

“I love you too.”

Zevran let his fingers travel over her body, relishing in her little moans and sighs. Not for the first time he marvelled at how perfect she felt beneath his hands. He squeezed her soft thighs in appreciation and hefted her breasts in his palms, smiling when she moaned his name.

“River,” he gasped, surging up to crash against her lips. This was love, and the fear of losing it paled in comparison to the thought of living without it. They clung together until her cries echoed off the stone walls, until the blight and anything else was forgotten in the frenzied tenderness of their embrace.

“I must tell you honestly,” he whispered in the aftermath, fingers working through her tousled hair, “Alistair did threaten me with physical harm if I did not come to see you tonight.”

“Is that why you're here?” She traced lazy patterns on his chest.

“No. It is why I came, I confess. I am ashamed to say it took the intervention of another for me to realise quite what an ass I had been. But I am here now because I love you.”

Her dark brown eyes shone with joy. “Say it again.”

“I love you,  _ mi amora.”  _ Rolling her over, he peppered her belly with kisses until she writhed in helpless laughter. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Enough!” Still laughing, she wriggled until his lips were level with hers. “Now show me.”

“Gladly.” And they were lost again in a tangle of sheets, breathless laughter and contented sighs.


	33. Ride

It was still dark when River awoke, disoriented to find herself in soft sheets, Zevran’s warm arm draped over her naked back. When the memory of the previous night returned she grumbled happily, wriggling closer to his side.

“My River.” He stirred and pressed his lips to her shoulder. “It is nearly dawn.”

This morning they would march, the Wardens leading their assembled armies to Denerim. To the archdemon. And she, a nobody brand from Dust Town, would be at the head of their forces. It was enough to make her bury her face back into the pillows.

“More time,” she mumbled.

Zevran smoothed the hair away from her neck, his hand running slow sweeps down her spine. “If you wish more sleep, my Warden, I will wake you when it is light.”

“Mmm.” He traced the round curve of her buttocks, down to her thighs and she inched her legs apart. “I don't know if I can go back to sleep now.”

His low chuckle sent a shiver through her belly. “Do you wish to rise early, then? Or is there some way you would prefer to pass the time?”

“I thought you might have some ideas.” She almost purred in pleasure when he straddled her to run both hands firmly over her back, kneading her shoulders, using firm thumbs to ease the knots of tension in her neck.

When she was limp and pliant under his hands his touch changed, brushing the sides of her breasts as his lips traced a warm trail down her back.

 _“Mi amora,”_ he murmured. “My brave, beautiful love. So soft,” grasping handfuls of her ample hips and buttocks, “so warm,” pressing his chest against her back as he lifted her hips, “so…” His next word was forgotten in a needy moan as he eased inside her.

He rested his weight on one elbow, clutching her fingers hard when they weaved through his.

“Tell me what you need.” His voice was a throaty gasp in her ear.

“You.” River ground back against him, urging him deeper. “Need you.” She bit back a cry as he angled into her, hitting a spot that made her toes curl.

“Say you love me, _mi amora.”_ He cupped one full breast in his free hand, rolling the taut nipple between his fingers.

“I love you,” she gasped. “Zevran…”

“I love you, my Warden. My little goddess. My River, my love…”

Tremors wracked her body and he quickened, thrusting into her until with a cry of _“Braska!”_ he collapsed against her back.

Her eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw being the growing light illuminating her little fingers entwined in his, pale pink against bronze clenched in the white sheets.

“There it is,” she sighed regretfully. “The dawn.”

“And so we ride.” But for the longest time they lay unmoving, Zevran planting soft kisses on her neck as their breathing steadied.

 

Redcliffe courtyard was a teeming mass of soldiers, the ancient stones echoing with the clink of armour and the rough tread of plated boots. Down in the village was even more impressive, the bulk of their forces waiting there to be led to battle.

River sat uneasily on her borrowed horse, looking down the hill at the gathered armies. There the Dalish, slender and leather-clad. There the grim-faced dwarves, many carrying weapons larger than themselves. Redcliffe soldiers, and a ragtag assortment of volunteers that had been steadily trickling in from the surrounding farmholds.

And the smallest group, the mages. Both younger and older than regular soldiers, pale and nervous - but every one of them was a survivor of the horrors at Kinloch Hold, she reminded herself, no true strangers to combat. If she was able to see herself her face might look just as peaked. Although that probably had as much to do with the snorting animal beneath her as the prospect of leading all these men and women against the darkspawn horde.

“She's very placid, I promise. She's the calmest horse Teagan could find you that wasn't half-dead.” Alistair’s own mount danced and tossed its huge head, but he sat in the saddle with practiced ease.

“It's just...such a long way down.” She wouldn't look at the ground again, she wouldn't. “It would be stupid to come all this way and die from falling off a horse.”

“Would you prefer a griffon?”

“Oh Maker, no!” Her stomach lurched at the thought. “They wouldn't want me to ride a griffon, would they?”

“Seems unlikely.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “They haven't been seen for centuries.”

“Neither have archdemons,” she muttered. Oh! Should she ask him about last night? What was the protocol, when your friend saved your life by impregnating his enemy? “How are you, anyway?”

He blushed furiously, turning his face away as he muttered, “Oh, you know...fine.”

“I won't push.” River would have reached for him, but she was too terrified to let go of the reins. “Just...thank you. Again.”

“Oh, it wasn't so - “ He turned a deeper shade of pink. “And you?”

It was her turn to blush. “I'm good.”

“I'm glad. You deserve to be...good.” Their shy grins were interrupted by a stirring at the head of the column. “It looks like we're moving. Eamon’s waiting for us at the front, we should probably head up now.”

“Oh...yes.” She gulped. How did you make a horse move, again? Would it know to step around people and not on them?

“My Warden.” She felt a hand on her knee, looked down startled to find Zevran gripping the reins in his other hand. “Alistair.” He winked and the King flushed pink once more.

“Zevran.” He cleared his throat. “I'll meet you up there, River. Don't rush, she'll be fine.”

“I'd like to believe him, but I think she wants to kill me,” she confessed to the elf. The horse whinnied in what she coughs could only assume was assent.

Zevran squeezed her knee, and it was oddly reassuring. “Would it be very unseemly, do you think, if we were to ride together?”

“I suppose not...if you don't mind being thrown off and trampled with me?”

“Do not fear, my Warden.” With a fluid movement he was seated behind her saddle on the horse's broad back, arms encircling her as he eased the reins from her tense hands. “Hold onto the saddle. Or to me, I do not mind.” She felt his smile against the top of her head. “Now, are you quite comfortable?”

“Yes,” she said, and was surprised to find it was true. Zevran’s easy presence at her back had a calming effect on her and the horse both.

“Good.” With a gentle press of his knees, he urged their mount forward. “Then we ride.”


	34. The Gates of Denerim

River smelled smoke on the air and opened her eyes, ashamed to find she had dozed off in the saddle. It was easy to do with Zevran in control of the reins, the circle of his arms holding her steady.

The horde must have taken a more direct route to Denerim than the King’s Road, but now their paths began to converge. Before long they saw the unmistakable signs of their passing. Crops wilted, hamlets burned, livestock slaughtered in the fields and left to rot. The lucky inhabitants of the farmholds had fled north long ago. Those who remained now decorated the tree branches, their flayed corpses slowly twisting in the wind.

“When the archdemon is defeated, we must see to this.” Alistair's jaw was clenched in fury. “These people deserve a pyre, at the very least.”

River was glad that Morrigan rode farther down the column, lest she say something scathing about “these people” being too stupid to flee from obvious danger. She could understand why people might be reluctant to leave behind their homes and livelihoods for a life of uncertainty on the road. She just hoped they would arrive in time to stop the slaughter on a larger scale in Denerim.

As the day wore on the light grew dimmer and a sickly glow built on the horizon. Before long it was all around them, roiling orange clouds casting an unearthly light over the blighted landscape until it was impossible to tell night from day. The horses whickered nervously.

“Maker's breath,” Alistair cursed. “It's like we're marching into the Void.”

She shivered, and felt Zevran’s arms tighten around her. “Do not fear, my warden,” he whispered. “We are ridiculously awesome.”

River laughed and squeezed his arm. “Yes,” she said, leaning into him. “We are, aren't we?”

 

It was mere hours later when they took the gates of Denerim, the battle short but bloody. Beyond the gates it seemed the city was burning.

“Do you think your sister made it out?”

Alistair stared in the direction of the flames, orange light flickering on his sweat-streaked skin. “I hope so,” he answered. “Riordan says the market district's overrun. There's no love lost between us, but she doesn't deserve…” He swallowed hard. “What we've seen.”

“Thank you, for what you said earlier. I mean it was embarrassing, but…thank you.”

He stared for a moment before understanding dawned. “Oh, you mean what I said to the troops? It's just the truth. None of us would be here without you.”

“Let's hope us being here is a good thing, then.” She grinned weakly.

Her hands still felt clammy when she thought of Alistair's speech. It wasn't his words so much as the eyes of all those people on her. River Brosca from Dust Town, dressed in hastily-altered Grey Warden leathers and cobbled-together bits of plate, barely fighting the urge to fiddle with the ends of her braids. And when she looked back at them she saw fear, of course, but also hope. And in the faces of the dwarven soldiers, not the contempt she had become accustomed to, but a fierce pride. In that moment they saw not a brand elevated far above her station, but a dwarf of Orzammar. A leader.

All these men and women were here because they had answered her call to arms. She hoped against hope that she wasn't about to lead them all to their deaths.

“We fight now, or Denerim falls.” Alistair read her face. “Then Ferelden, and the rest of Thedas.”

“Will we be enough? All the Wardens in Ferelden couldn't win at Ostagar.” She glanced at Alistair, over to Riordan, and down at the rampant griffon on her own breastplate. “And there were more of us then.”

“It'll have to be,” he said firmly. “These are our streets, not a battlefield. And what's an archdemon but a big, ugly dragon? I seem to remember we killed one of those before.”

“We did, didn't we?” She took a deep breath. “Let's do this, then. For the Grey Wardens!”

“For the Grey Wardens!” Alistair raised his sword high, grinning like a madman, and she grinned back. Perhaps to make it through tonight, they'd need to be a little mad.

 

Only three of her companions were to follow her into the city. It made no sense to River, but Riordan was the senior warden now and those were his orders.

Alistair was the obvious choice, as another warden. Morrigan could provide the right balance of offensive and protective spells, and was less likely than their other mage to fall dead at an inopportune moment. The two of them came to stand with her, drawing curious glances from the others as they fidgeted and avoided eye contact with each other.

That only left one.

“Zevran?” It was meant as a question, but he quickly answered, “Of course,” and joined the others at her side.

That was settled, then. She made her goodbyes to everyone, even those who were coming with her. Who knew when they might get another chance to speak? If they even survived the night. Soon there was just Zevran, and their companions drifted away to give them privacy.

“So we head into the city to face the archdemon together, do we?” He smiled as if he were talking about a stroll in the woods. “Just as it should be. Allow me to say that it has been a pleasure, my friend. Assassinating you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me.”

River bit her lip, suddenly afraid that she might cry. “Is it the right thing to bring you with me?” she asked. “I'm being selfish, aren't I?”

Zevran’s expression changed. Taking her by the arms, he knelt so his face was almost level with hers, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse with conviction. ”By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself.” He pulled her closer, his lips warm against her ear. “Do not doubt it.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

His mouth slanted hard over hers, hands on the small of her back crushing her against him. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him for dear life, whimpering softly when his hand slid around the back of her neck. At long last they broke apart, gasping for air.

“We will survive, my River.” She leaned into his hand as he cupped her cheek, and looking into his golden eyes she felt as if it might even be possible. “We are simply too pretty to die. Now.” Zevran smiled. “Let us go and be heroes.”


	35. Fort Drakon

“That's the last door, then?” River wiped her blades clean of sticky ogre blood. “And then the roof." 

“And the archdemon.” Alistair’s jaw was set with grim determination, his chest still heaving from the last fight. The momentum that had brought them through the burning streets of Denerim and up through the stories of Fort Drakon seemed to wane, and for a moment they looked as they were - young, battle-weary and uncertain. 

River glanced between Alistair and Morrigan. “What if it didn't work?”

“Focus first on slaying the creature,” the witch snapped. “Anything else is unimportant until that is done.”

“You mean you're not sure?” Alistair’s voice rose an octave. “After we…?”

“I do not recall you having any complaints at the time, Alistair.”

Zevran looked between the three of them with bemusement. “Do you wish me to go and stand elsewhere whilst you finish this conversation, or would somebody care to fill me in?”

“It  _ will _ work.” Ignoring the elf, Morrigan glared at the two Grey Wardens. “I know this. Now, shall we do what we came here to do, or had you planned on talking the Blight to an end?”

“No. We're going out there and we're going to finish this.” River’s eyes shone with determination. “Morrigan and Zevran, I want you to keep back and cover us. Don't get closer than you need to.”

“And let you take all the risk?” Zevran found himself oddly reluctant to agree. “I am better with daggers than with a bow, mi amora.”

“Yes but you're still  _ very _ good with a bow.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “And not immune to the taint, so it's not safe for you to get close. Besides, you're all tall and shiny and you'll draw its attention; I'm little and dull so I can sneak around and stab it when it's looking at you. From a distance.”

“So, in essence, you wish me to stand back and look pretty?”

“Yes. And shoot a dragon full of arrows.”

“Very well, I accept.”

“Good.” River grinned from ear to ear. “We're going to kill the archdemon, and we're all going to live.”

Strategy resolved, they turned back to Alistair and Morrigan - the young king looked sheepish and the mage a touch too casual, and if Zevran didn't know better he would have suspected they'd just missed the two of them embracing. 

“Well then,” Alistair mumbled. “We'd better get out there and get this over with.”

“I will be gone after the battle.” Another cryptic glance was exchanged between Morrigan and the Wardens. “I suppose I should say farewell now.”

Alistair snorted. “Oh, stop it, you'll make me cry.”

Morrigan made a noise of disgust and Zevran was reassured that the moment between them had been his imagination. 

“Goodbye Morrigan,” River said sincerely. “And thank you.”

The witch’s mouth twitched with the threat of a smile, then her yellow eyes narrowed. “Enough sentiment. We have a battle to fight.” She hoisted her staff and strode for the door, and Alistair followed. 

Zevran turned to River, one eyebrow raised. “After you, my lady.”

“Don't forget to look pretty, will you?” River smiled up at him and he tried to commit this moment to memory - her warm, wide brown eyes, her sun-kissed button nose and rosy cheeks. 

“I never do, my River.”

 

His head still ringing, Zevran clambered to his feet. Was it over? The archdemon had been down, the tide of darkspawn finally ebbing, and the last thing he had seen was River standing over a sword buried in the beast’s massive head. Then the world had exploded. 

“River?” Where was she? Panic rose in his chest. “River?”

“Over there.” Alistair’s gauntleted hand fell on his shoulder and Zevran followed the direction of his gaze. At first it looked like little more than a bundle of rags on the ground, then the haze cleared and he could see her, curled in on herself like a wounded animal. “Is she…?”

“No.” The sharp denial was for Alistair, for himself, for any crowding thought that dared suggest the light had gone from those deep brown eyes. “No.” He dashed to her, gathering her little body in his arms. “River? My River, I am here, my love.”

He felt her stir, and a breath he didn't know he was holding left his lungs in a choked sob of relief. Her lashes fluttered, eyes finally, reluctantly opening. 

“Zev? Is it over? Did we win? Are we alive?” Slowly she reached up, touching the tears running down his face. “What's that?”

“So many questions, my warden! There is smoke in my eyes, that is all.”

River wriggled impatiently. “Help me up.”

“A moment longer.” He touched her face, thumb tracing her cheekbones and her soft lips, pressed his forehead to hers and felt the flutter of her lashes on his skin, the warm huff of breath that told him she was alive, alive, and all was perfect with the world. He felt the tentative brush of lips against his and opened his mouth to drink her in, to memorise the taste and feel of her kiss. 

“Is she all - oh.” Alistair’s heavy tread came to a halt. “I guess this means she's not badly hurt?”

“I'm fine.” Her words were for Alistair, but her eyes were on Zevran's face, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “But this elf won't let me up.”

He sighed. “Very well then.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, he struggled up, finally depositing the dwarf on her feet where she swayed for just a moment. She stared at the archdemon’s corpse, a hulking, reeking, ichor-spattered mess sprawled on the flagstones. 

“It's definitely dead then?” She grinned at Alistair. “And we're alive.”

“Yep.” Wearily, he returned her smile. “Looks like she was right.”

“Where is she?” 

The warden's shoulders slumped. “Gone. Just like she said she'd be.”

River made her way to his side and rested her small hand on his arm. “I'm sorry, Alistair.”

“Sorry?” he spluttered, face turning pink. “I don't know why you'd be sorry. I don't care at all! It's great, actually - no more Morrigan! Yay!”

Zevran trusted that River would explain all this to him later - or not, if it were not her secret to tell. For now… “We should get back to the others.” From afar, it looked like the tide of battle had turned. The horde was scattered, small groups wandering confused and harried through the winding streets below. 

“We should.” Ichor-stained gloves discarded, River rubbed her eyes with an unsteady hand. “In a moment. Let's…let's just sit here a while.” She looked to Alistair, who nodded. 

“I'd say we've earned it.”

“Look.” Sinking down onto a low wall, River pointed to the east where the unnatural orange clouds had dispersed enough to allow the first weak rays of sunshine through. “Dawn. Isn't it beautiful?”

Zevran sat beside her and watched the pale sunrise brighten her face. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “Beautiful.”


	36. Epilogue

King Alistair greeted them both with a bear hug. “It's been too long!” he complained. “Where have you been?” 

“Here and there,” Zevran answered mysteriously, and River nudged him. 

“We've just come from Orzammar.” 

Alistair ushered them into his rooms, Horse padding along at River’s heels. “How are things there?” 

Her nose wrinkled. “Change happens slowly, I suppose. Casteless can fight in the Deep Roads now, which should have happened centuries ago, but it took weeks of wrangling to get the Assembly to agree. I think Bhelen is almost ready to dissolve the whole thing and take over, and honestly there are times when I think it's not a terrible idea.”

“And your family?”

“Ugh.” She hoisted herself into a chair. It was funny to see the newly appointed Commander of the Grey, swinging her legs like a fidgeting child. “Don't ask.” Zevran hid a smirk behind his hand. 

“So it's not true what Rica said about your mother?”

“No, it's true. She's given up drink, and she's unbearable as ever. Lording it over Hightown like she killed the archdemon and married the king herself. Worse since…well.” She grimaced, looking down at her hands. 

“It's true, then?” Alistair asked. “They're going to make you a Paragon?” 

“It looks that way. I bet I get the ugliest statue of all.”

“Then it will hardly be accurate!” 

Zevran cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I claim the right to ostentatious compliments where our dear warden is concerned.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, my mistake.”

“What about you, Alistair?” River tilted her head; really, he had forgotten how endearing she could be. 

“Statues? I'm working on it. Perhaps a large one in the market district. Slaying a dragon and looking rakishly handsome.”

She laughed. “I can imagine it! But how have you been, silly man?” 

“Oh, you know. Wise and just, stern but fair, beloved of the people…all that kingly stuff.”

“Lonely?” 

“Not in present company,” he deflected. 

“Do you ever wonder where -” 

“No.” He sprang to his feet, eager to change the subject. “Anyone for a drink? They let me have the good wine now I'm king.”

“We'll have to find you a wife, Alistair,” River called as he went searching for more goblets.

“If you insist. Is your mother single?”

“I don't know, Alistair…calling you Papa will take some getting used to.”

He grinned. “As your stepfather, I'll have to have a word with you about the company you keep. And you can expect a stern talking to about your intentions, Zevran!” 

“Again?” 

“Maker's breath,” he swore. “I'll have to send to the kitchens. Don't steal anything while I'm gone!” 

“I am offended you would think this of me, Alistair.”

“I'm talking to the dwarf,” he shot back. “You know what she's like.”

He smiled as he went in search of a servant. In truth, he missed his time on the road. He missed River’s cheerful company, their odd collection of companions…Maker, he sometimes even missed Morrigan. Despite what he said, he did wonder sometimes where she was, out there in the world carrying his child. And he'd wake sometimes from a dream of the brush of dark hair against his chest, cool fingers on his face and the scent of blown-out candles… 

But that was the past. A wife would have to be found, eventually, from among the simpering girls at court. An heir produced that wasn't part archdemon, borne by a witch of the Wilds. 

He paused in the doorway to his rooms. River was perched in Zevran's lap, her little arms wrapped around his neck. He held her as if she were precious, their foreheads pressed together in silent communication. It was unbearably tender, and for a moment he felt like an intruder, an uninvited witness to their love. He wondered if he could ever find that with someone who hadn't been through what they had together. 

Then River turned to him and smiled, and the spell was broken. 

“Did you find anyone?” 

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “They'll be along in a minute. So…what are your plans, now?”

“The Wardens are sending me to Amaranthine.” River rested her head comfortably against Zevran’s chest. “It's time to rebuild the Order in Ferelden. And I'm their leader! How did that happen?” 

“You earned it, that's how.” He sat, stretching his long legs out before him. “What will you do, Zevran?” 

The elf looked down at River, a faint smile on his face. “Where she goes, I go.”

They fell into the comfortable silence of old friends, listening to the happy snuffles and sighs of the Mabari at their feet. There would be times to come when life would take them in different directions, and times when they were brought together again, in peace and to face dangers yet unforeseen. But Alistair was happy in the certainty that wherever River went, Zevran would have her back, and she his. 

As it should be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys...thanks for all your kudos and comments and all the love for River.  
> xoxoxo


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